Try Something
by fourleggedfish
Summary: Wilson is curious, and the results don't even come close to what he expected. House/Wilson EXPLICIT SLASH, and angst and strong friendship. Will be several parts. Please RR!
1. Try Something

This is set in Season 5, after "Birth Marks." Spoilers for the entire series, up until that point. Thanks to all of you who have commented on my previous stories - I really appreciated it! Hope you enjoy!

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Wilson was surprised to find House just sitting on the couch when he keyed open the door. He had not noticed the Repsol outside when he parked his Volvo in front of 221B and had figured that House was running late, that he might even have been at the hospital still. "Hey."

House started. Even with the TV on mute, he had not heard Wilson come in. That was interesting; House was often preoccupied, but not oblivious. "Hey. What are you doing here?"

"Movie night. We just talked about it." At House's blank look, Wilson raised his eyebrows. "At the hospital, remember? In your office? Half an hour ago?"

"Oh. Right." House settled back against the cushions and resumed his silent communion with the equally silent television, picking at his lower lip.

Wilson made an exasperated face even though he would gain nothing from the effort. "Right," he parroted under his breath. In a normal tone, he asked, "Mind if I turn on the lights, or did I walk in on a new hobby? You hiding something over there? Maybe you set up an obstacle course in your living room to see how long it would take me to trip and break…" He trailed off when his sarcasm failed to provoke a response. "Oooookay. Did I miss something? You take up tantric meditation in the past three minutes?"

House shrugged, his gaze fixed blankly ahead of him. "Did you bring food?" he asked instead.

"Do you _see_ food?" Wilson countered.

"I see _you_."

Wilson opened his mouth to retort but nothing came to mind. He narrowed his eyes instead and put on an expression that House had once termed 'plotting in confusion' while he studied the back of House's head. His banter on auto pilot, he said, "Is this your inner cannibal speaking, or did you just run out of witty things to say?"

"That depends." House threw a disinterested glance over his shoulder. "Are you yummy?"

"Ask my ex wives," Wilson deadpanned, but his mind was only half on the verbal sparring. House's rebuttals were perfectly in character but they seemed to lack an intangible measure of either snark or fake-flirt. "Don't bite my head off for this, but is everything okay? You seem off." House lowered his brows in disapproval without turning from a muted reenactment of some Civil War skirmish. "Okay, more off than normal," Wilson amended.

That seemed to satisfy House. He waved a hand in dismissal and Wilson noted the bottle of Makers Mark on the coffee table. He was thankful to see that it was still mostly full. "Case. We keep making him worse."

"Mm." Wilson stepped around to perch on the armrest next to him, casually assessing his friend's mood. "Isn't your patient a girl?"

"Could be."

"You had me rule out ovarian cancer."

"We can't make gender assumptions based on outward anatomy, remember? That's referred to as 'judging a book by its cover.' It's discrimination, and discrimination compromises patient care."

Wilson nodded and smiled at the half-hearted reference to the runway model who turned out to be a guy, as well as the subtle mockery of the memo that PPTH's General Counsel had sent around that week to remind everyone (read: House) of lawsuit-worthy behavior. "Now I get it. You're channeling Cuddy. Very convincing. Your cleavage is stunning, by the way." That earned him a smirk but the humor failed to reach House's eyes. Wilson sighed, and in a complete nonsequitor, he abruptly turned to face House's profile on the couch beside him, drawing his right leg up to rest his foot near House's good leg, though he stayed well without House's personal bubble. "I want to try something."

Finally, the TV lost House's attention, and Wilson gave himself props for perfecting his House-playing skills over the years. He knew exactly what inflections to use to get House to fixate on him. It was almost thrilling to know that he could do that at will. "Try what?" House asked. "New Chinese place?"

"Like you'd eat anything that didn't come from your regular Chinese place."

"I've been known to experiment," House replied. And for once, though those words sounded provokative, Wilson did not think that House realized it. He was defensive rather than teasing.

For all the games they played with each other, all the flirting with homoerotic undertones, Wilson truly did not think that House registered half of the things that went on beneath the surface of the words they exchanged. House said things to get a rise out of people, and that banter was simply one means to an end. It seemed impossible that House could have missed the pun he'd made on top of Wilson's hints, being that he could normally read people with such ease. Then again, Wilson had never given any indication that he might like to take their banter seriously – that he was curious.

While House's indignant stare gradually turned perplexed, Wilson made his decision. He shifted his weight onto the foot that rested on the couch cushion and leaned down toward House. When House drew back, probably under the impression that Wilson was about to fall over, Wilson latched his hands around the back of his best friend's neck and pulled him forward again. All House got out was a surprised "Mrmph" as Wilson pressed their lips together.

Neither of them moved at first, Wilson too apprehensive and House too busy figuring out the nature of this new game. Eventually, Wilson felt House's lips part beneath his own, and the tip of a tongue brushed over his mouth in a tentative caress. Both of them kept their eyes open, carefully watching for warnings or cues from the other. Up close, House's eyes flickered in shards of blue reflecting the glow from the muted television. Wilson blinked and answered House's foray with a press of his own tongue. They exhaled simultaneously, and then Wilson's tongue delved forward of its own accord.

House drew in a startled breath but accommodated him without complaint. He remained docile, however; Wilson had expected House to be more demanding, to assert some sort of dominance. It was a bit unnerving to have a silent and subservient House accepting this from him on _his_ terms. It was also erotic as hell.

Wilson fell fully onto the couch and House moved to give him space, never once pulling away or breaking the kiss. They jockeyed for position for a moment, and then Wilson decided to take the initiative that House had apparently granted him in this situation. He pushed and pulled at House's torso until he was sitting sideways on the couch with his bad leg hanging safely out of the way, foot on the floor. Then Wilson lunged, using the armrest for leverage. House grabbed at Wilson's biceps to slow his backward fall, and grunted as he hit the cushions.

The move jostled their lips apart, and Wilson took a moment to gaze down at House. His hands still gripped Wilson's arms too tightly for comfort, but that was the only sign of trepidation that House betrayed. He arched an eyebrow and Wilson grinned. _Still not boring _sizzled in the air between them.

Wilson bent down and took a moment to nibble along House's jugular while he worked his left knee between House's legs, straddling his friend's good thigh. The hands on his forearms loosened but did not leave. Apparently, House was content to remain a passive participant, at least for now. That was fine with Wilson; it made things easier.

Taking care not to be too aggressive (this was brand new territory, after all), Wilson stretched himself out along House's body and resumed his ministrations to House's mouth. The first time he swallowed a sound out of House, Wilson thought it was a fluke caused by a compressed diaphragm. By the third noise, Wilson was debating whether to call those sounds moans or whimpers. He needed to hear more of them to resolve the issue, so he experimented by running one hand down the length of House's body, avoiding the obvious places and coming to rest against the inside of House's left thigh. The heat radiating between them was evidence enough of House's enjoyment. Wilson shifted his hand to the left and squeezed the tender skin at the juncture of leg and hip. House jerked against him and choked on another one of those delicious little noises, his head lolling back and breaking the kiss. Wilson latched his mouth to House's collarbone instead and made lazy circles with his thumb mere millimeters from House's groin. The denim pulled taut under his fingers and Wilson dared to let his hand drift over the bulge that caused it. Just a ghost of neatly trimmed fingernails, but it drew a clear whimper from his friend. House immediately clamped his mouth shut on the sound and Wilson decided that the sport of this game was to get House to let loose his vocal cords.

House's eyes found Wilson's just as he made this resolution, so he got to watch House's lids flutter when he pressed the heel of his hand down against House's jeans-covered erection. The material under his hand was damp with sweat and precum, and Wilson made a slow sweep upwards along House's confined length.

"Oh, shi-i-i-i-t," House groaned. His voice had gone up a few registers and it sent Wilson's blood pulsing southward. A second press and sweep made House arch upward, seeking friction, and a third finally drew out a rumbling moan of disbelief mingled with bliss.

House's hands tightened again on Wilson's arms and fingernails dug into the muscle near Wilson's elbow as House pressed himself up against Wilson's body, baring his neck in the process. Wilson immediately focused his attentions there and worked his mouth up across House's jaw line until he found a spot just below and behind House's ear that made his breaths come at shorter intervals.

"Hey, Wilson?" House's voice was nine parts air, one part lust.

Wilson suckled at a vein in House's neck, alternating teeth and tongue. _Let's see how he explains this to the ducklings_, he thought mischievously as he made sure to leave a livid mark. In response to House, he mumbled, "Hmmm?" around the nip of skin he held between his teeth, and noted that the vibration of his voice made House shiver.

"What…_nnnnn_." House broke off to hiss in pleasure when Wilson's errant fingers located a nipple to pinch through his tshirt. Then he tried to speak again. "What made you wanna try – try – _ahhn_. Wilson?"

Wilson was surprised when the hands on his chest pushed him back instead of reaching for buttons. In response, Wilson pressed his hand harder against House's clothed cock, but even though it made him swallow convulsively with his eyelids at half-mast, House held Wilson out at arm's length, insistent. Wilson stopped with a long-suffering sigh. "What, you actually want to talk about something?"

"Have you done this before?" The continuance of the talking was House's only way of admitting that yes, he wanted to talk.

Wilson pursed his lips and settled backwards so that his weight wasn't resting mainly on House's arms. "You have impeccable timing with this sort of thing. You know that?"

"Just answer the question."

Impatient-House never boded well for anyone, so Wilson relented. "Not with a guy. You?"

House shook his head. "Why'd you suddenly decide to try this now?"

_Dammit._ House was in diagnostics mode now; it showed in his eyes, the set of his brow, his voice…nothing would get him out of it until he solved whatever puzzle he thought he'd stumbled upon. "Look. For once, House, there's no deep dark secret ulterior motive. Okay? Being a doctor, I know the logistics of – of – " He gestured at the both of them to convey the idea of 'man-sex' without actually having to say it. (Please, House, don't be an ass for once and make me say it.) "I wonder what it would feel like sometimes. And I guess I've been having a dry spell, and you're curious about…well, everything. I figured, in the grand scheme of things, you'd be a safe…safer…well, relatively sorta almost safe bet." He smiled sheepishly. "And you looked like maybe you needed a distraction too."

"Oh."

Wilson narrowed his eyes. "Oh? That's all?"

House shrugged. "I expected you to lie."

"Lie how? And say what?"

"I dunno. Just figured you'd find something."

Wilson let his exasperated face sneak out again. He had a hundred subtle variations on it that he reserved exclusively for House; this one contained hints of irritation mixed with frustrated arousal – a new variation. "You know, I don't actually lie to you all that often."

"Not on purpose."

Wilson glanced to the side and noted his tie on the floor. Hm. So House's hands had been less idle that he'd thought. His rebuttal to House's comment was to dive back down and capture House's mouth to shut him up. It seemed to work. House met Wilson's assault with the heat that had been absent earlier. Of course, Wilson thought; now that House understood what was going on – what was expected of him and what to expect in turn from Wilson – he was free to enjoy it. Wilson gasped into the kiss and then House's tongue caught him by surprise as it surged into his mouth. A rough calloused hand wrapped around the back of Wilson's neck to hold him in place while House mapped out the path to Wilson's tonsils. They created a wet suction between themselves, lips oscillating over each other at a constant pace.

House's other hand busied itself at Wilson's shirt buttons so Wilson took the opportunity to fiddle at House's belt. A firm tug slid the leather from the belt loops and Wilson dropped it off the side of the couch. His hand came back to House's waist but his fingers stilled on the button of his jeans. Cold feet. If he went a single step farther, they could officially refer to this exercise as "sex." The thought worked as an anti-venom against the effects of the previous fifteen minutes and Wilson's movements slowed of their own accord. What the hell was he doing? This was his best friend crushed into the couch beneath him, opportunistic bastard though that man may be. This was _House_.

"Wha's wrong?" House gasped. He had finished unbuttoning Wilson's shirt but his hands remained clenched in the fabric. "Why'd you stop?"

"I…" Wilson trailed off, too overcome by a plethora of new and unusual sensations to put his thoughts into words. His legs were pressed on either side of House's left leg and his groin rubbed pleasantly against his best friend's thigh through khaki and denim. House's own groin had somehow ended up nestled in the fold of Wilson's left hip, and House canted his pelvis upward every few seconds to press the unmistakable shape of his hard cock against Wilson's abdomen. A slow burn was already building in Wilson's stomach. All courtesy of _House_. It wasn't even the sex-with-another-man thing that got to him, just the identity of the particular man. This could not turn out well. What was he thinking when he started this? House was always accusing him of submitting to his wandering dick. This was just more proof, apparently, that House was right about Wilson being a bit of a slut.

"Stop thinking," House ordered. To highlight this, he snaked a hand between their bodies and cupped Wilson through his slacks, squeezing almost too firmly at his flagging erection.

Wilson's paralysis broke and he thrust against House's hand with a strangled sound caught in the back of his throat. His hands finished opening House's fly and he reached in before he could talk himself out of it. Damp boxers met his questing fingers and Wilson worked the flap aside with one hand. His other hand slipped under House's t-shirt and worked its way around to the small of House's back. Wilson used it to angle House's lower torso upwards and House shifted to let him. Then Wilson's brain whited out momentarily when House, who had been using his time to get Wilson's pants down past his ass, wrapped long fingers around Wilson's bare cock and thumbed his tip.

"Shitshit_shit_ – oh…amph-mmm." Wilson's limbs turned to jelly and he flopped forward, crushing the breath out of House's lungs sharply enough that he felt the air rush past his ear. This coincidentally had the bonus effect of making Wilson shudder, and his hands – one of which was still poised inside House's boxers – clenched involuntarily.

"Nngg-ha," House gasped with what little breath Wilson had left him.

The hand grasping Wilson's cock went lax, and Wilson could think again. More or less. He went back on the offensive, his mouth stealing air from House's lungs, his hand pumping House's length while he shamelessly rutted against the hand that remained circled loosely about his own shaft. The scratch of denim on House's leg as Wilson thrust filled the spaces between fingers, creating a lovely counter-texture for Wilson to enjoy. Wilson's arm tightened across House's back and he worked his hand into the seat of House's jeans until he located skin. The muscles of House's buttocks rippled as Wilson stroked him from above, leaving enough space between his ass and the couch cushions for Wilson to find his balls from behind. He massaged them as best as he could from that angle, then rubbed backwards and pressed his thumb against House's perineum.

House bucked and arched back into the headrest, his blue eyes wide and surprised. The hand at Wilson's groin disappeared but Wilson didn't mind; he could still create just enough friction against House's leg to keep himself satisfied for a while longer. Wilson repeated his fingering and then moved yet farther back to circle his knuckle around the tight circle of muscle at House's anus. House practically jumped at this and Wilson heard the clatter of objects upset by House kicking the coffee table.

"Careful," Wilson murmured. "You'll hurt yourself."

"Wilson."

Wilson took this as encouragement and firmly pressed the pad of his thumb against House's opening. House's entire body flexed again, but this time, Wilson recognized it for the flinch that it was. He immediately retreated to the safe zone of House's lower back, but House didn't resume their former play. His hands shoved at Wilson's chest again and Wilson tried to soothe him with feather-light kisses and a slow kneading of the lumbar muscles.

"Relax, House. If you aren't okay with that I won't try it again." House's chest heaved and when he used his right leg as leverage to try and tip Wilson off, Wilson started to worry about him straining his damaged thigh. "Hey. Stop it." Wilson pulled his hands back and captured House's wrists to still his struggles, but House merely fought harder. At that point, Wilson would have happily rolled off of him, but they were so tangled up in each other that he probably would have hurt House if he tried to find his way off the couch now. He maintained his grip on House's wrists with difficulty; there would surely be bruises if he didn't get him subdued quickly. "House. _House!_ I'm not gonna do anything to you. Come on – lie still!"

House wrenched his right hand free and seized Wilson's shirt in an attempt to drag him off. It was all Wilson could do to avoid falling over and elbowing House's bad thigh. They grappled for a few seconds until Wilson finally recaptured House's wrist and bore down against his friend. He forced House's hands over his head and braced his weight against them on the armrest. House's body followed the movement so that as Wilson redistributed his weight and lifted off to pin him, House managed to keep their groins flush with each other.

Wilson paused as he realized this and looked down at his friend. House's face was strained, his breathing ragged, but he wasn't in a panic. Glancing over his shoulder, Wilson found that House had wrapped his good leg over Wilson's right knee, anchoring him in place. He looked back at House's face. "You like this."

House's only response was to twist his wrists in Wilson's hands and buck up against him. He was still hard.

"You-you-" Wilson sputtered. He tightened his grip on House out of frustration, though he now knew that this would probably only serve to further excite him. "You could have just told me you liked it this way."

"That's no fun." House's words were thready, and damn if that wasn't incredibly hot. "Besides – we're experimenting. I wanted to see how you'd react." He used his thigh to nudge at Wilson's crotch. "Guess you like it too."

Wilson's breath fled his lungs as House legged the underside of his cock. He inhaled sharply. "You prick. I thought I was hurting you."

"Yeah," House agreed. "And yet you're getting off on it. That's interesting."

Wilson appraised him for a moment and then snapped, "Fine. Have it your way." He leaned on House's wrists hard enough to be _certain_ of bruising this time – served him right – and attacked House's neck and throat with his mouth. House's moan took him off guard, but it also enflamed him. _Damn him_. House was right. This _was_ erotic, having House writhing beneath him, forcing him to submit. It was _such_ a turn-on.

Wilson repositioned himself so that he had a knee on either side of House's waist, then ground his pelvis down. This produced a whine in the back of House's throat that put Wilson in imminent danger of losing control. He rutted against his best friend for a few minutes, all the while keeping up a steady rhythm with his tongue – in House's mouth, down his neck to the hollow of his throat, and back. House's half-hearted struggles to free his hands broke up the flow enough to prolong the encounter; Wilson was certain that he would not have lasted otherwise.

Wilson was trying to figure out how to finish them both off while keeping House pinned when he spied his tie on the floor near House's belt. He grinned against House's throat and House made an uncertain noise when he felt Wilson's glee. Wilson worked his mouth back up and made a valiant attempt to get House to swallow his tongue before drawing back far enough to mumble, "Safe word," straight into House's mouth.

House was muzzy with passion and could only manage to slur, "Safewha?" before he sought out Wilson's lips again.

Wilson evaded him and smiled at the impatient groan that this engendered. "I said, _safe word_. You need one so that I know whether the fighting is part of the fun or not." House moaned in frustration when Wilson lifted off and pretended that he was about to leave. He did not, however, release House's wrists. Not yet. "Hurry up and pick something."

"You're such a girl," House complained as he squirmed in an effort to reestablish contact.

Wilson smirked. "Pick a safe word and you won't think that for much longer."

House froze and stared up at Wilson in shock, all static-puffed hair and blown pupils. For a second, Wilson feared that he had said something wrong, but then House said, "Lupus. Safe word's lupus."

"Sounds good," Wilson replied. And then he climbed off and stood up to stretch, leaving House all alone on the couch and free to move around.

"Hey! You said – " House's protest transformed into a yelp of surprise as Wilson seized his arms and dragged him off onto the floor, not all that gently. "Hey, cripple here!"

"I didn't hear you say lupus."

"Because it's _never_ lupus," House countered forcefully.

Wilson paused to study him. That had been House's _pay attention, moron! _tone of voice, which meant that he intended for Wilson to read something into that sentence. Could that have been an admission of trust? It's never lupus, so House will never _say_ lupus…because he trusts that Wilson won't give him any reason to? Could that be?

"You haven't done anything yet to convince me you're not a girl," House interrupted before Wilson could go all gooey on him. His gaze traveled lower. "And you look like an idiot dangling out of your pants like that."

"Shut up, House."

Wilson took a moment to push his slacks and boxers all the way off, and toed them out of the way. House watched this display avidly from the floor, barely able to conceal his anticipation. In fact, Wilson was probably the only person who would have noticed the tension in him as he reclined on his elbows, his expression open and honest as only House could make it when he was up to no good.

"Your turn," Wilson chirped. He didn't expect House to just comply and disrobe, and he was not disappointed. House snorted, and Wilson grinned down at him. He shouldn't find the thought of ripping his best friend's clothes off quite this exciting, but he did. What did that say about him?

"You're thinking again," House snapped. "I thought we were past that."

"Just working out logistics," Wilson replied.

That was apparently not one of the many response that House had thought he might make, and Wilson took advantage of his momentary lapse to pretty much fall on him. House brought his hands up to prevent Wilson crashing into him before he realized that Wilson didn't trip. By then, Wilson had already dragged his jeans down far enough to expose him to the knees, and House tried to kick his hands off with his calves and feet trapped in denim. Wilson laughed without meaning to and wrenched them off the rest of the way, then reached for House's boxers.

That was when it started to get fun. House blocked his hands and shoved him against the couch, then scooted backwards to try and put the coffee table between them. Wilson seized his ankles and pretty much climbed over top of him to hold his lower body in place. Forget the boxers, then; Wilson could work around them. He reached back to grab his tie, and House's eyes grew wide, not necessarily in a good way. Wilson waited just long enough for him to call out the safe word if he wanted to, and then moved ahead with his plan.

House fought him like his life depended on it at that point, and Wilson shoved his concern aside. This was part of the game, and House could end it anytime he chose. He got his tie looped around one of House's wrists with little difficulty, but getting the other one bound proved to be a different matter. House twisted beneath him, his left leg drawn up as he tried to throw Wilson off, and Wilson tightened his thighs on either side of House's waist to keep his seat on House's stomach. When House finally got his left foot planted flat on the floor, he heaved his torso up and they both tipped to the side. In the end, this was a good thing for Wilson because House ended up trapping his free hand against the floor all by himself; all Wilson had to do was truss him up.

House breathed heavily once Wilson finished binding his hands, and waited for Wilson to satisfy himself that yes, House _was_ still enjoying this, if errant anatomy was any indication. "Now what?"

Wilson glared at him and House seemed to shrink back. Though he couldn't hide the fact that Wilson's rough handling turned him on, it appeared that he was still apprehensive for some reason. Well, considering that Wilson had gotten off on the struggling even _before_ House had admitted that he liked it… Wilson would have been a little worried too, were he in House's position.

That didn't stop him, though. Wilson scanned their surroundings for something that would suit his needs, and his eyes rested on the leg of the couch. Good enough – the couch was heavy enough that it probably wouldn't move _too_ much, no matter how rowdy they got. Wilson leaned over past House's head and threaded the other end of his tie around the couch leg, pulling it until House's fingers brushed against the leather. He tied it off with a knot that he had learned in the Boy Scouts, snickering at the imagined look of horror on his den leader's face if he knew what use Wilson was putting his lessons to.

By the time House realized what he was doing, it was too late to prevent it, and now he looked more than just worried. "Wilson, I dunno – "

"Safe word," Wilson interrupted.

"Yeah. No." House's breath grew more uneven, and he stared up at his best friend. "It's just – "

"Safe. Word." Wilson frowned pointedly at him, but he couldn't remain stern for more than a few moments. House really did look scared. "You don't have to go along with this."

House peered up at his bound hands, then back at Wilson's body draped over him, holding him down. His adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. "No. Keep going."

Wilson couldn't escape the twinge of uncertainty that touched the pit of his stomach. He felt like he had just managed to guilt House into continuing, though he had no idea how. And since when did House ever feel guilty for anything, anyway? "Are you sure?"

"I didn't say the safe word," House snapped, pulling against his bonds in a deliberate manner. "Get on with it."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Only you could get bossy while playing the submissive."

"I'm impatient. Is that a crime?"

"Nope." Wilson reached to touch his face, a tender gesture, but House flinched. "Seriously, House." A glare was his only response so Wilson ignored the mixed signals and leaned over to resume their game. House was already in a nearly perfect position to conclude this, so Wilson simply slid a bit lower and rolled House so that he was laying half on his stomach, half on his left side. Then he paused again and looked around the living room. "Um."

House craned his neck to look at him. "What now?"

Wilson fidgeted with the hem of House's shirt – they both still had their shirts on, though Wilson's at least was unbuttoned. "As much of a masochist as you apparently are, I'm assuming you're not gonna want it dry."

"Oh." House joined him in visually searching the living room, but nothing caught their eyes. "I guess you'll have to go get something then."

"Or not." Wilson used his foot to snag his slacks and draw them close enough that he could rummage through the pockets. "Here we go," he announced, revealing a travel-sized bottle of lotion.

"You do _not_ walk around with lilac-scented hand lotion in your pocket all day."

"Do you think women like to get breast exams from doctors with scratchy hands?" Wilson replied.

House's face scrunched up. "You wear _gloves_ for that. Whose breasts are you feeling up bare-handed?"

Wilson avoided that entire can of worms by shoving his hand under House's shirt and tweaking a nipple hard enough to make him jerk away. "Yours."

"Fine. We'll discuss it later," House said around a sharp inhale.

Wilson pinched again and House's breath hitched. He grinned at that and leaned down to nip at House's earlobe before crushing their lips back together. House responded immediately, allowing Wilson free reign where his mouth and tongue were concerned. Wilson slid over so that he was laying mostly behind House on the floor, covering House's back with his stomach, and mouthed along his neck and shoulders instead. When House started to shuffle away, Wilson slipped his right arm around House's waist and hauled him back so that their bodies remained lined up. Wilson could feel House's carotid pulse with his lips, beating strong and fast. His fingers crept under the waistband of House's boxers and Wilson chuckled when he felt the pulse speed up.

House's arms automatically moved to participate, pulling the tie tighter around his wrists, and this seemed to fire him back up. He flexed his body as Wilson continued to stroke him, arching his head back to give Wilson easier access to his throat. Wilson complied and licked a line from his collar bone to his mouth. The angle was too awkward for a proper kiss but Wilson sucked House's lower lip between his teeth for a moment. Then he moved back down until he reached the juncture of neck and shoulder. On an impulse, Wilson nosed the skin and then bit down, hard.

"Ow! God…" The 'ow' seemed to be reflexive; House clearly enjoyed the pain. "Mmm." He bit his bottom lip to prevent any further words from escaping. Wilson laved kisses on the ill-treated skin, but he couldn't resist biting again, just to see what would happen. House's body jerked and he shoved his cock harder into Wilson's hand, demanding a faster pace.

Instead of granting him release, Wilson stilled his hand but maintained a firm grip around the base of House's cock, intent on tormenting him since he seemed to enjoy it. A whine worked its way around the back of House's throat and he tried in vain to work up friction against Wilson's immobile hand. All he got for his trouble was a tighter grip – no movement. His hips stilled in defeat.

Wilson laid a chaste kiss against the fevered skin at the nape of House's neck. "Just be patient."

"Easy…for you to say," House panted.

Wilson laughed lightly against him, and then shifted around a bit. He draped his right leg over House's thighs, careful to stay well above the scar, and House made an inquisitive sound as Wilson pulled him close enough to rub his hard cock against House's ass. Wilson pulled House's boxers all the way off, then popped the lid on his lotion and squeezed some out onto his fingers. He slicked himself up first to save time, and then reached to probe between House's cheeks until he found the tight opening he was aiming for. House exhaled forcefully and Wilson froze when he saw House's mouth start to form an L. Nothing beyond that made its way past House's lips, though, so Wilson moved his finger up and down over the outer ring of House's anus. He kept his touch slow and light to give House a chance to get used to the sensation, and to object if he decided he didn't want to go through with this. House's body radiated tension and Wilson couldn't help rubbing his cock up and down the cleft of his best friend's buttocks while he increased the pressure of his finger against the opening. A sound made its way out of House's mouth that Wilson likened to a hiccup.

"You okay?" Wilson asked. He couldn't help worrying; it was in his nature to soothe, after all.

House nodded but didn't speak, though his fingers had twisted to grip the silk of the tie that stretched from his wrists to the couch leg. His knuckles were white. Wilson placed soft kisses all along House's neck and shoulders in the hopes of putting him at ease, and without giving any warning, he slipped his lotioned finger into his best friend.

"Ah!" House's surprised exclamation was accompanied by an instinctive move to pull away from the offending finger, but Wilson tightened his leg over House's body and forced him to stay where he was. In the hopes of keeping him interested, Wilson resumed lightly stroking House's cock, his fist just tight enough to provide a pleasant burn, but nothing that would end the encounter early. He could feel House melt as the unusual feeling of Wilson's intruding finger gave way to pleasure.

A little bit of maneuvering resulted in Wilson prodding against House's prostate, and House let out a breathy moan that shot straight to Wilson's groin. He swore he could feel House's cock swell in his hand as he flicked repeatedly against the little nodule inside his friend. His attentions caused House's breathing to speed up at an alarming rate and he had to fight to keep House from bucking wildly into his hand. Wilson worked his finger in a little deeper so that he could reach House's prostate with more than just the tip of his fingernail, and he nudged it more firmly.

"Oh god. _Oh god_." House was practically keening as Wilson worked him open, and a second finger easily slid in to join the first. "Wilson – _fuck!_ – I'm gonna – "

"No you're not," Wilson assured him. It was almost cruel to do so, but Wilson released House's throbbing cock and instead circled the base with thumb and forefinger. He made a mental note to have a cock ring handy the next time they did this. And yes, Wilson intended for there to be a next time. With that thought in mind, he squeezed that special place to prevent House from coming.

"Ah-_nnnngg!_ You _bastard_!" House gasped with as much force as he could manage. Wilson laughed and worked a third finger in as House tried desperately to bite back a series of grunts and breathless moans. If anything, denying him an orgasm seemed to make House even hornier, even more hard and frantic, and his vocalizations increased. "Wilson, I swear, if you don't _do something_ – "

"Oh, please. What can you threaten me with?" Wilson demanded. He twisted his fingers inside House's body and nudged his prostate hard enough to send him into near paroxysms of pleasure. Then he abruptly removed all three fingers and just laid there, waiting patiently even though his rigid cock was leaking against House's backside and he was nearly as desperate for release.

House panted, expectant, but when nothing happened for nearly a minute, he twisted to look at Wilson. "What are you grinning at?" he demanded, pissed.

"You."

He lowered his brows and rubbed his ass back against Wilson hard enough to make him gasp. "Then get going."

"Again with the demands. You clearly haven't absorbed the idea behind this." Wilson threw a pointed look up at House's bound wrists.

House's eyes followed his and he wrenched his hands as hard as he could, pulling the silk taut and shifting the couch a centimeter closer. "I get it just fine. Now"—he shoved back against Wilson almost violently—"_fuck me!_"

Wilson hissed and grunted as House's ass squished his penis between them, and then gave up on the dom bit. He couldn't wait any longer, and he released House's cock long enough to reposition them both. Wilson slipped his right leg between House's and angled himself so that his foot rested on the floor in front of House's groin, his leg drawn up with House's damaged leg resting over it, out of the way. At the same time, it spread House open for easier access. Wilson shimmied closer and held the tip of his penis against House's opening, but he stopped there. They didn't have to finish this way; they could just as easily keep it clean, so to speak.

"Are you gonna do it, or – "

Wilson shoved forward before House could complete that sentence, and then seized House's hip to hold him still when he jerked at the unexpected intrusion. Only his tip had breached the barrier, but Wilson panted openmouthed against House's scapula, overwhelmed by the heat, the tightness of the sheath in which he found himself. House shuddered violently and gulped in breath after breath to calm himself, and Wilson helped him along with low murmured assurances while he rubbed his right hand in circles over House's belly. House's abdominal muscles flexed under his hand as he adjusted to Wilson's presence inside him, and when Wilson judged him to be relaxed enough, he slid forward a little more.

House let out a sound that came dangerously close to a sob, and Wilson moved his hand from House's stomach to his penis. House's erection had faded a bit, but it was nowhere near dead, and Wilson squeezed while thumbing at the slit. It didn't return House to his former hardness, but it at least stopped him from softening any more.

"Do you want to stop?"

House's chest heaved a few times before he managed to croak, "I didn't say it."

"I know." Wilson tried to use his compassionate voice without making House feel that he was being coddled. "Do you want to?"

A long moment passed while House caught his breath and Wilson fought not to move his hips. Finally, "No. Keep going."

Wilson nodded to himself but remained still except for his hand, which continued to fondle House's balls and work along the length of his cock. It was awkward, seeing that Wilson had to use his non-dominant hand, but it worked well enough that House relaxed in stages in response to his careful handling. Eventually, Wilson let go of House's cock and gripped his hip again. He was able to press further in, and his balls came to rest against House's skin.

"Ahhhhh…."

"House?"

"m'okay," House replied with his face mashed into the rug. Wilson tried to catch a glimpse of his face to see if he was lying, but it was impossible at this angle.

Every fiber of muscle surrounding Wilson's cock rippled, which nearly sent him over the edge on the spot. With difficulty, he talked himself down – _dead cancer kids, dead cancer kids, dead cancer kids_ – and once he'd regained control of himself, he moved his right hand back to House's groin.

When he found nothing but soft tissue there, he felt the tension of impending orgasm fly far away from him. "House, you're not okay."

"Yes I am," House mumbled into the rug.

"You're not even a little bit hard," Wilson argued, his voice tinged with anger. "Why didn't you say – "

"Because I'm _fine!_" House yelled. The force of his words moved his entire body and Wilson felt himself shift inside of him. "_Shit!_"

That word came out too high pitched for Wilson to deny that this was causing him pain. "We're not doing this," he decided, and started to pull out.

"Wait, wait, wait!" House gasped, following Wilson back so that he couldn't withdraw. "Just wait. Okay? Just…just touch me…or…something. Distract me."

"This isn't pleasant for you," Wilson said, pleading with his voice and the arm that he had wrapped around House's chest to just let it be over. It had been fun before, when they'd been rolling around and fighting for control, but now that he was actually hurting House – hurting his best friend – Wilson felt sick.

"It will be," House said, rolling just a fraction so that he was no longer inhaling carpet lint with every breath. "Kiss me. Come on. Quit thinking."

The irony of House reassuring him, in this situation no less, was not lost on Wilson. He snorted against House's shoulder and shook his head. "I knew it. You're a softie." They both looked down at House's limp penis and laughed at the inadvertent pun, but had to stop when the movement made House start to gulp and shudder again. Wilson nuzzled House's neck and let his tongue lick away the sweat he found there. "I won't tell."

"You do, and I'll announce to the entire clinic waiting room that we had hot, kinky man sex on my apartment floor."

"You gonna admit that you bottomed?"

"Who'd believe it?"

Wilson chuckled and caressed House's chest while he continued lapping the salt from his neck and shoulders. "Cuddy might. Chase definitely would."

"Hmm. Wanna bet?"

Wilson considered this for less than a second. "Ummmm, no. I don't think I want to tempt you to tell anyone about this at all."

"Mmm. Smart man."

House sighed and Wilson felt him settle a bit. He moved his hand a bit lower and teased along House's hip bone, light pinches interspersed with soft strokes of fingers along the tender skin. House shifted a bit and Wilson concentrated his mouth on that spot behind House's ear that had so excited him before. He had indeed left a mark earlier so Wilson figured that a second one made little difference. He nipped the skin and suckled around it, his tongue drawing random patterns along the vein. House shivered but it was the good kind. Encouraged, Wilson shifted his hand back to House's penis and found it less flaccid than before. He wrapped his fingers around it and squeezed, and House rewarded him with a satisfied grunt. Wilson slowly worked him back up to something respectable, finding plenty of lubrication left over from before to start a lazy rhythm up and down his length. He tongued House's throat as his did so, which also allowed him to discretely monitor House's pulse rate as it slowed with the loss of tension, and then sped back up as his arousal grew.

"Mmm," House rumbled, content to let Wilson work him until his limbs felt boneless. "S'good. More."

Wilson obliged him with a firmer grip and a slightly faster rhythm. He added a twist on the upstroke and made certain to spend some time rubbing at House's slit just to tease him. House's breathing sped up and Wilson felt his friend's cock grow harder in his hand. He smiled against House's neck and continued working him until he found beads of precum leaking from House's cockhead again. Finally, a moan made it out as House exhaled, and Wilson tried circling his hips to see how House would react.

The result surprised him. House gasped and choked back a groan, then whimpered, and before Wilson could wonder what that meant, House had shoved himself back against Wilson. Then he thrust forward into Wilson's hand and immediately back again, grinding back against Wilson's cock.

"Oh…God, House." Wilson could hardly breathe at the sensation of his penis rubbing against the inside of House's body, and he jutted his hips forward without meaning to be so rough.

House moaned again, turning his face into the rug as if to hide how much he enjoyed it, his hips still jerking to maintain the friction against Wilson's hand. Wilson wriggled until he could prop himself up a bit on his left elbow, all the while maintaining a constant rhythm between his hand and his cock, working House from both ends while he found a more convenient position from which to thrust. In short time, Wilson found an angle that allowed him to penetrate deeper, and then he was hitting House's prostate with each forward motion.

The heat was incredible. Wilson fought to maintain control of himself, to keep from thrusting too hard or coming before he'd had a chance to really enjoy the tight confines of House's ass. Sweat broke out on his brow and he mouthed unconsciously at the bite mark that he had left on House's shoulder, his eyes shut tight in pleasure.

"Slow…" House gasped out, his voice barely audible. "Slow down. I can't…I can't…"

Wilson understood immediately, but instead of slowing his hips, he stopped the motion of his hand and abandoned House's cock. The whine that House treated him to made him thrust harder, but the angle was still too awkward for him. Wilson rolled forward a bit more, forcing House further over so that he laid almost fully on his stomach. Wilson let his weight rest along House's back and resumed his thrusts.

"Oh – oh – mmm – Wils – nnn_nn_." House degenerated into complete incoherence, his body fighting to meet Wilson each time he plunged in. Wilson's blood boiled to know that he had rendered House speechless and his balls slapped against House's ass cheeks in a steadily increasing rhythm.

_Not too soon, not too soon_, Wilson told himself. He tried to slow, to hold back, with limited success. He wanted to draw this out as long as possible, preferably all night. No woman had ever left him so determined to deny himself gratification, but House…House made him wish he still had the stamina of a twenty year old, to go three times in a row and still be ready for more. He knew that he would collapse as soon as this was over, though, so he resolved to make his one shot as long and pleasurable as possible.

Wilson needed to know how close House was, so he reached down again to test his reflexes. The moment Wilson's fingers closed on House's weeping cock, a groan ripped itself from House's throat and he jerked violently against Wilson's palm, all conscious volition gone as he blindly sought release. Wilson swallowed and breathed to dispel the effect that this had on him, and then gripped the base of House's cock to hold him back. House's movements became erratic but he didn't come, and Wilson shuddered at the way House keened in the back of his throat, desperate and mindless and completely at Wilson's mercy.

After a few more minutes, during which House babbled and pled with the carpet, and Wilson pictured all manner of disgusting things to stave off his orgasm, Wilson couldn't take any more. He let loose and pounded House into the floor. House moaned in shameless gratitude when Wilson went back to pumping his cock in time with his thrusts. In no time at all, Wilson felt House go rigid beneath him before he shot hot wetness all over Wilson's hand and the rug, his hips pumping furiously and his mouth spilling a string of wordless bliss into the hot air surrounding their sweating bodies. Wilson groaned into House's shoulder as the muscles of House's rectum contracted around his cock, and then he tipped over the edge with a growl loud enough to be audible from the hallway, were anyone out there to hear.

Wilson kept thrusting until he was spent, and was about to pull out when House arched violently and convulsed against him, his head thrown back and his mouth agape. Aftershock. The sight alone sent another ripple of fire through Wilson's body and his hips jerked into House one last time before he softened too much to continue. House continued to shiver for a few seconds before going limp, and Wilson collapsed on top of him.

They both fought to draw enough breath to cool their seared lungs, and Wilson kissed whatever skin happened to be under his mouth. Once he had recovered some of his faculties, he lifted his head enough to peer at his best friend's face. House's eyes were closed, his cheek resting against the rug, mouth open just enough for Wilson to glimpse teeth and the tip of his tongue as he panted and basked in the afterglow.

"House?"

"I can hear you thinking."

Wilson smiled and leaned over to capture House's mouth in a languorous kiss while he untied his hands. "Thanks," Wilson murmured before he pulled away and flopped back on the rug.

House grunted. "Don't mention it."

* * * * *

Long hours later, Wilson's brain forced him to rise up from sleep. He registered some noise that sounded like tapping or knocking, or thumping, but since House was still securely nestled up against his stomach, breathing contently, he didn't think anything of it. Neighbors were most likely having a noisy morning. Wilson shifted closer to the warmth of his best friend's body until House's head was tucked under his chin. One of House's hands had intertwined with Wilson's during the night and he smiled sleepily at the unconscious show of affection.

Another sound startled Wilson into alertness, and he finally realized that the knocking had been someone pounding on House's apartment door. He shivered at the draft that worked its way across the floor, and then jumped when a shadow fell across them.

"Oh my god."

Wilson blinked and looked up to find Cuddy standing beside the couch, House's spare key in her hand. Then he started and sat up fast enough to make his head spin, fumbling the whole while to cover himself with his discarded pants. "I – y-you – we – " Wilson gestured around nonspecifically and then rubbed the back of his neck as if it could save him from this embarrassment.

Cuddy shook her head in shock, and then offered, "Neither of you showed up this morning, and I tried calling…" She studiously avoided looking at either Wilson or the still-sleeping House. "I thought…something might be wrong…and I tried your place first but you weren't there…and your cars were both here…" Cuddy's mouth worked a bit more and then she just stopped talking.

Wilson flapped his hand in her general direction, too flustered to offer anything at all in the way of comfort or explanation. "W-w-well, you – " And then he broke off again because there was just nothing more.

"Phone got knocked off the hook," Cuddy observed, pointing to the receiver and cradle scattered separately on the floor along with the unbroken bottle of Maker's Mark, some medical journals, and various other accoutrements that House had knocked off the coffee table when he kicked it the night before.

Just the thought of the previous night made the neat rise in Wilson's face and he knew that he had turned scarlet. Before he could stop his mouth, he added, "And our phones are set to vibrate and still in our pockets."

Cuddy nodded, her wide eyes fixed to the television, which still played documentaries on mute. "And since you weren't wearing them, you didn't know I called."

Wilson nodded and gestured some more, then looked around for a clock. "Oh my god. It's ten-thirty? I have appointments – "

House chose that moment to snuffle and rejoin the conscious world, and when he rolled over to find out what all the commotion was about, he blinked. "Cuddy?" Then he looked at Wilson trying to conceal himself, and then he noticed that his own privates were hanging out in plain view. "Hm. Imagine that." He made no attempt to try and cover up.

"Okay, look," Cuddy said, turning back to face them. When she saw that House was still exposed, she rolled her eyes, unsurprised. "Both of you take the day off, and when you come in tomorrow, we'll pretend this never happened." She hastened to drop the key on the coffee table and rush to the door, but paused on the threshold. "And don't let this happen again." She started to leave, then paused and mumbled, "I mean, the don't just forget to show up again, that. Not _that_, that. I can't stop you from doing _that_… Oh, god, I need a drink."

Cuddy stepped out into the hall and reached back to shut the door, but not before House called, "Hey, Cuddy. Do you believe I bottomed?"

Wilson just dropped his head into his hands and sighed.


	2. Revisited

They didn't talk about it for three weeks, not even to mention that something out of the ordinary had occurred, but Wilson noticed how House stole glances at him whenever he thought no one was looking. He also noticed how Cuddy suddenly had better things to do than hound House and wiggle her barely-concealed breasts about under his nose, and how she couldn't look Wilson in the eye at the next board meeting. Their lunches went on as usual – House stealing Wilson's food and Wilson letting him because House wouldn't eat otherwise – and as far as hospital business was concerned, their friendship went on as before. House solved his case two days after their encounter, and then nailed four more in rapid succession while Wilson wondered what House was thinking about when he sat and stared across the balcony at Wilson's office door until well after normal business hours.

The third time Wilson caught him staring off into space at nine o'clock at night, he resolved to do something about it. House was obviously intrigued but reluctant, probably because he couldn't be sure what Wilson's thoughts were on the matter. To hell with that; Wilson was horny and he had no other prospects at the moment.

In the privacy of his own mind, Wilson admitted that even if he _did_ have a girlfriend, sex with House had raised the bar high enough that Wilson would still lust after him. He just wished he'd known this sooner; he could have saved himself a half-dozen affairs with mediocre women, and maybe one or two marriages. Julie definitely could have been avoided, since she was the woman he cheated with when he'd been married to Bonnie.

Besides. With House, he didn't have to censor himself. The biting and the battle for dominance, knowing that he could bear down with his full weight or get rough and not hurt him…the fact that House was just as strong as Wilson, that he could win the struggle if Wilson didn't pay close enough attention…that made the game that much sweeter.

Wilson shuddered right there in the hallway and thanked the late hour; no one would notice if he was a little wobbly, or if his pants stretched in awkward folds all of a sudden. Through the glass doors of the diagnostics office, Wilson watched House brood and knead his fuzzy ball. Tonight would be perfect. It was Friday, neither of them were on call, House was between cases…they could take all the time they wanted. Wilson glanced around, deep in thought, and then wandered to the stairwell. He didn't want the ding of the elevator to alert House to his continued presence in the hospital, lest it spoil the surprise.

A half hour later, Wilson had collected everything he thought they might need and returned to contemplate the figure of his friend lounging in his darkened office. House still had not turned from his study of the balcony door, and Wilson smiled. Sometimes, House could be so obvious that Wilson wondered how he managed to conceal anything at all.

Wilson made a noisy entrance, allowing the glass door to grind in its setting as he shoved into House's office with his arms full of what he hoped would amount to an amazing evening. House jumped at the sound and fumbled to keep from dropping his ball as Wilson strode up to the desk and dumped an armload on top of House's disorganized patient files. "Hey. Late night?"

House stared for a second. "You're still here?"

"Nope," Wilson replied, settling himself in the chair across from House. "I'm a figment. Pay me no mind."

"A figment bearing gifts," House said, his eyes flickering over Wilson's pile of loot. "Didn't the Greeks say something about being wary of things like that?"

Wilson shrugged. "They were only talking about Trojans. I have some, incidentally, if you need something to be wary of."

"I think you're more than enough on your own," House told him, ignoring the condom joke. It was lame anyway, so Wilson wasn't surprised that House brushed it aside. He followed House's gaze as it came to rest on the soft cuffs that Wilson had borrowed from the psych ward. They were the good restraints, the ones with actual buckles instead of Velcro so that the wearer couldn't just pull free. House swallowed hard. "So…these are for me?"

"If you're up for it," Wilson replied. Then he shifted uncertainly in his chair and met House's eyes, wondering if maybe he'd gone too far and House regretted their rendezvous after all. "I know we haven't really talked about the last time, but – "

"Let's go," House cut him off.

Wilson felt his face light up even though he tried desperately to hide how pleased he was. "Really? You're okay with it?"

"I said _let's go_, didn't I?" House retorted as he labored to his feet and reached for his cane and backpack. "You want me to get it embroidered on my ass?"

Wilson smirked as he stood too. "I can think of better things to do with your ass."

"Good," House said. "Then we're agreed. Let's go."

He limped around Wilson and they both headed for the elevator. Just as the carriage arrived, Wilson swore and went back to House's office to impatiently stuff the restraints and hospital brand lube into his brief case. He didn't want House mocking his hand cream again. Once he hurried back out to the elevators, he found that House had not waited for him, and grinned. He could only imagine what House would do with the few minutes lead he had on Wilson.

As it turned out, Wilson arrived first and let himself in with the key above House's door – the one Cuddy had used three weeks ago when she walked in on them. House had never returned the key that Wilson had thrown at him right after Amber's death, but Wilson didn't blame him for that. He had said some pretty horrible things to House between then and John House's funeral; if House never forgot them, it would serve Wilson right.

Wilson turned after the door was open and went to return the key, but then he stopped and looked at it. On second thought, he pocketed it. His mind flooded with images of himself sneaking into House's apartment in the middle of the night – into his bedroom – and assaulting him in the best possible way. He imagined House's surprise and momentary fear as Wilson pounced onto the bed, waking him abruptly and trapping him under his own blankets. He conjured up the expression of bliss on House's face as Wilson rubbed him through the comforter while he remained pinned, completely unable to move, unable to protest as Wilson made him come hard in his pajamas, desperately squirming in the throes of orgasm…

"Shit," Wilson muttered. He shook himself and went inside, pulling the door shut behind him. He couldn't go on like this, constantly thinking up new ways to take advantage of this new facet of their friendship. People might start to notice him staring slack-jawed every time House lumbered past him in the hallway.

Wilson's first task was to untangle the restraints and get everything set up. He made House's bed in the process and picked up all the clothes scattered over the floor and chair. No doubt, House would have some sort of snarky comment about that, but Wilson didn't care. He liked things neat.

Once finished in the bedroom, Wilson turned on the television to pass the time, but he couldn't settle. After fifteen minutes, he got up to pace from one end of the apartment to the other, following the path that House took on his 'walking days' to ease the spasms in his leg – around the kitchen island, out into the living room to circle the couch and run a hand along the baby grand, then back to the kitchen. After another ten minutes of this, Wilson strode to the window and stared out at the street. He was officially worried now; House should have been here half an hour ago. Visions of flaming bike wrecks and House stuck in a strange hospital with nothing more than incompetent first-year ER residents standing between him and death set Wilson's stomach churning in against itself. He eyed the street, willing House's Repsol to glide into view. It didn't.

Just as Wilson surrendered and pulled out his cell phone, a low drone caught his ears. He hurried back to the window in time to see House coast by 221B on his way to an open parking space, and Wilson breathed a huge sigh of relief. Once his nerves stopped jangling, he allowed himself to be angry at House for worrying him like that, and he leaned back against the piano to wait so that he could yell at him before taking out his frustrations in the bedroom.

Bedroom… Wilson glanced aside, his thoughts spinning around that notion. It held an unmistakable appeal to him – the option of finding a way to punish House with pleasure. That was somehow fitting and Wilson tucked the idea away for later contemplation.

The key in the lock brought Wilson back to the moment, and House pushed the door open just far enough to stick his head inside and locate Wilson against the piano. He immediately lowered his eyes and limped into the apartment, letting the door swing softly shut behind him. Wilson's anger evaporated as he noted House's slightly hunched posture, the way he hunkered down as if anticipating a blow. Instead of his intended reprimand, Wilson went with levity. "Did you get lost? That's quite a feat, even for you."

House glanced toward Wilson's feet as he set his helmet and backpack on his desk and removed his coat. "Stopped off for some dinner."

"No you didn't," Wilson said automatically. "Wait. Did you?"

House unzipped his backpack and pulled out a bag full of Chinese cartons, which he held up for Wilson to see. "I used my own credit card and everything."

Wilson's face fought not to smile, but it was a lost battle. "That's…nice. You could have called. I was worried."

"You're always worried," House snapped. "Knock it off."

The smile faded from Wilson's face. House seemed on edge for some reason, and buying them both food – he only did that when he was avoiding something. Wilson nodded even though House hadn't said anything that required it. "You don't want to do it."

"What?" House's eyes finally met his head on, and he straightened. "No, that's not the point."

"So there is _some_ point," Wilson said.

House thumped his cane against the floor a few times, his eyes roving around the apartment, and then he sighed. "The…the cuffs," he admitted with his gaze fixed on some point near Wilson's left hand.

"It's too much? That's fine," Wilson said quickly, though he was secretly disappointed. He had been looking so forward to this ever since he'd paused in the hallway outside House's office. "We don't have to do anything you're not comfortable with. We don't have to do anything at all, for that matter."

House nodded absently a few times, then shook his head as if arguing with himself. "Wilson – " He cut himself off before he could say anything more and took angry steps into the kitchen.

Wilson watched him toss the Chinese on the counter and then fling the fridge open. After he'd rummaged around for longer than necessary, clinking beer bottles without actually taking any out, Wilson followed him and firmly pushed the fridge door shut. "Talk to me."

"No."

"House." Wilson rubbed the back of his neck, and then caught House's arm as he turned away. He didn't mean to upset his friend's balance, but before he knew it, House had stumbled into him and Wilson was bracing him against the counter so that his leg wouldn't fold under him.

"Leggo!" House said, shoving Wilson away even though it would cost him his only support. Wilson stumbled back into the autopsy table that formed House's kitchen island, and watched his friend slide to the floor. House leaned against the lower cabinets and gripped his thigh for a moment before glaring up at Wilson. "What?"

Wilson's head was shaking even before he'd formed a clear thought. This pose, the way the two of them faced off, House huddled on the floor and bent over his thigh, refusing Wilson's help…it reminded Wilson vividly of the months following the infarction. He opened his mouth only to let out a short, exasperated laugh that carried absolutely no humor, and then peered down at his best friend. "I'm not leaving until you tell me what's going on."

House scoffed and looked away.

"I'm serious!" Wilson shouted, and to his chagrin, House flinched. This was not the man Wilson was used to seeing when he visited 221B. House did not flinch, and he didn't avoid eye contact, and…and he didn't just sit on the floor and allow himself to be pitied. "Why not the cuffs?" Wilson demanded. "Answer me, House."

"Aren't we just the pretty little dom, now," House muttered to the tiles under his hand.

Wilson reigned in his temper and put his hands on his hips to keep them from grabbing House and knocking him back against the cabinets. "Is this part of the game? Are we playing already?"

"No," House replied, every bit as forceful as Wilson had been earlier.

"Then why – "

In a sudden flurry of motion, House threw his cane at Wilson with as much force as he could muster, though he missed and it ricocheted harmlessly off the door jamb. "Because I don't trust you!"

They both remained in place, House glaring at the floor as if it had personally offended him, and Wilson gaping at House. Wilson's eyes inexplicably teared at that pronouncement but he refused to let anything come of it. "You – you don't trust me?" he whispered. That hurt more than he cared to admit.

House shook his head and refused to look at Wilson.

"Okay," Wilson croaked. His shoes squeaked on the floor as he shuffled backwards, licking his lips and swallowing as quickly as his throat muscles could constrict. "Okay."

"Don't go," House pleaded. His voice was almost too soft to hear but Wilson latched onto the sound and held still, waiting for something more. "I'm just…I _want _to…but…"

"You know I couldn't hurt you," Wilson interjected, stepping back to toe at House's shoe. "You _know_ that."

"No I don't." House lifted his eyes and searched Wilson's face. "Twice now." At Wilson's non-comprehending head shake, House elaborated, "Twice now, you've wanted me dead."

"Wha…" Wilson's breath evaporated and his eyes grew wide as saucers. "No. _No!_ Why would you even think – "

"You left me lying in my own vomit when I overdosed, and then you told me you wanted me to die so that Amber could live." House's eyes flashed, but the tremor in his voice belied the anger. "Chase said you didn't even try to help when I seized on the DBS table. You left my brain impaled on a bunch of probes. You didn't even _look_."

Wilson's lips worked around thin air as he stared at his best friend, trying to think of some way to answer for that – any way, any way at all. House sounded so small. House never sounded like that. "What brought this up now?"

House shrugged, averting his gaze again, and evaded the question. "It's not sudden."

Of course is wasn't sudden. House stewed over matters of a personal nature for months before he could find a way to bring them up in conversation, and more often than not, this was the only sort of conversation that House could manage to have when his feelings were involved. "I didn't mean those things. I didn't mean any – "

"But you said it," House said.

"I was scared, and then angry, and confused – "

"But you _said_ it!" House insisted, his voice raised. "You may take it back now, but when you said it, you meant it. You – "

"House, stop. I didn't – "

" – wanted me dead when you said it."

They fell into utter silence, both of them horrified by what House had just said because neither of them knew for sure that Wilson had not meant it, or any of the other things he'd said in the aftermath of the bus crash. Lamely, Wilson averred, "I want you alive now."

The words had no effect on House. "I thought about it, you know. When she died, and you wouldn't talk to me. I thought about it."

Wilson's blood ran cold. House didn't say that to be manipulative; he was just stating a fact, just passing on information as if it made no difference to him, but it did. It made a terrible difference. Wilson could never have imagined the sort of power he had over House. To know that his hasty, ill-thought words had nearly killed his best friend – were _still_ killing him, if this conversation were any indication. This wasn't a game, Wilson realized. It had _never_ been a game to House.

Wilson was on the floor before he realized it, his hands fisted around clumps of Rolling Stones tee, which he pressed his face into just to smell House's musk and reassure himself that he was actually sitting there, still breathing in spite of what Wilson had done to him. "I'm sorry," he choked into the fabric. "I'm so sorry, House."

"Hey." House tugged at his hair until Wilson stopped dripping salt and snot on his tee shirt. "This is vintage. What the hell are you doing?"

Wilson laughed and allowed himself to smile though he was sure he looked a mess at the moment. Of all the things – crying into Gregory House's shoulder. That was probably right up there with throwing expensive liquor and getting married the third time. Wilson's expression turned serious. House was watching him with that wary sort of bemusement that Wilson often took as a cover for House's real feelings. Maybe it wasn't a cover. Maybe House really was just confused by Wilson's reaction. They stared at each other for a moment longer, their faces inches apart, and then Wilson closed the distance too fast for House to react.

Wilson's lips crashed into House's hard enough that House's head thumped back against the cabinet. He grunted into Wilson's mouth, surprised, and Wilson swirled his tongue up behind House's teeth, tasting the roof of his mouth and wondering when he had managed to down a shot of scotch.

Once House relaxed into the kiss, Wilson broke off and mouthed his way across House's jaw to his ear, where he paused to promise, "You can trust me. I'll show you. Let me show you."

"You don't have to – "

"Yes I do," Wilson breathed against him, telling secrets to the blood that flowed under the skin where his mouth rested. "Because you don't, and I have to fix that."

House shoved him suddenly and Wilson flopped back against the autopsy table, stunned. House's face had turned angry in a way that Wilson had never experienced directed at him before. "I don't need you to fix me!" House shouted, incensed. He reached up to grip the countertop to try and make it to his feet.

Wilson lunged forward and yanked him back down by his belt loops, not caring if he jostled House's leg just so long as it prevented him from leaving. "I'm not! I'm not trying to fix you; I'm trying to fix _us_. I _broke_ it. You didn't do anything, I did. You did everything I asked. _I_ broke it." He tried to find House's mouth but House twisted so that Wilson could only reach his cheek. He took what he could and drew a wet line across the stubble there. "Please, let me – "

"Knock it off," House gasped as he struggled to get away. "Wilson – "

"It's okay." Wilson climbed forward and pressed against House just to keep him there, in the kitchen, on the floor with him until everything got better and this conversation went away. He stopped moving and House eventually stilled as well. They breathed in tandem for a while, neither of them brave enough to make the next move, or even to look at the other.

A long, loaded silence stretched the air thin between them, and then finally – _finally_ – House spoke. "I didn't say it." It was barely a murmur, but Wilson looked up to find House watching him from behind guarded blue eyes. "I didn't say the safe word."

Like Wilson needed him to elaborate.

They moved at the same time and ended up landing in an awkward pile against the leg of the autopsy table, House half-sprawled on top of Wilson while Wilson had managed to hook his foot behind House's left knee. He pulled it sharply to the side and House yelped as he slid off, dragging Wilson over with him. They made a comical picture, bunched up in the corner by the refrigerator, each of them fighting for an advantage that the other refused to grant, Wilson grinning in relief and House simply intent on their activity.

House grunted when Wilson elbowed him sharply in the ribs on accident. "Sorry."

"This isn't gonna work in here," House replied.

"Sure it will." Wilson rucked House's shirt up and then shoved him over onto the floor. "Have a little faith."

"Have you forgotten who you're – oh." House stopped talking and Wilson grinned with his face pressed against the zipper of House's jeans. With his eyes trained upward, watching for the reaction, Wilson latched his mouth over the shapes under the denim and exhaled hot breath, as if he were steaming up a window to draw on. House shuddered and plunked his head back against the floor. "Right. Got faith. Sorry."

Wilson continued to mouth him for a while, both eager and reluctant to go any further. He let his thoughts drift and linger around what House had said…about how Wilson's words had left him contemplating suicide. What that meant to him, Wilson wasn't sure. It meant something, he knew that; it meant that House took his thoughts and opinions more seriously than he had ever credited. That was something Wilson could work with.

"Damn, Wilson. If you have to brew an epiphany, could you do it somewhere else? I'm dying here."

Wilson froze even though House meant it only as a euphemism. Uncertain and a little anxious, Wilson raised his head and peered up the length of House's body. Since when had he become this emotionally invested in House? Sure, they were friends. But this felt like something else.

Blue eyes appeared over the swell of House's chest to glower at him. "Is that it?"

"No."

An eyebrow arched upwards. "Oooooookay. You want me to go do some laundry or count floorboards while you finish freaking out down there?"

Wilson shook his head. "You should have said no. To the DBS. Why didn't you?"

House groaned and flopped back down. "Do we have to do this now?"

"You got to interrupt last time. It's my turn."

Some sort of exasperated laugh-slash-snort-slash-curse made it's way out of House. "I'll let you use the cuffs if you just drop it."

Wilson bit his tongue and considered that rather tempting option. "Seriously?"

"Seriously. Drop it and you can do whatever you want with them."

"But I thought you didn't – "

"Stop thinking!"

Wilson pondered that for a moment longer. "Okay. Deal." He climbed upright and held out a hand to help House up. "You do realize that I'm just gonna bring it up later, right? This is only a temporary reprieve."

House pulled himself to his feet along Wilson's arm and blinked. "Then the deal's off. You drop it forever, or no props."

Wilson's eyes narrowed then returned to normal. "In that case, game on."

"What?" He took a step back. "No, the deal is – "

Wilson seized House's arm and yanked him off balance, then caught him up in a vice grip before he could fall, his back pressed to Wilson's front, arms crossed and pinned over his own waist. "The deal is: if you don't want the cuffs, you say the safe word."

"I already told you – "

House gasped as Wilson shoved him hard against the autopsy table, and tightened his arms. "If you want to trust me, then trust me. Otherwise, end it."

"I already _told_ you," House repeated, wheezing against the pressure banded over his chest and abdomen. Wilson loosened his grip just enough to allow him to breathe comfortably. "I didn't say it."

"Oh," Wilson said dumbly. That was true – he hadn't once said it. He had merely expressed his opinion on the subject, which happened to coincide with a few errant emotions and insecurities. House really did want to trust him, in spite of all the justifications he had given for not doing so. That bore remembrance over the course of the next few hours. "Well, in that case…"

Wilson hauled House back and man-handled him out of the kitchen, but House managed to plant his left foot against the door jamb and send them both careening into the wall. The impact stunned Wilson enough that House freed an arm and twisted to grab at Wilson's sleeve. He pulled and Wilson tumbled over, flailing to find something to grab onto, but he only ended up dragging a picture off the wall. House plucked it from his hand, set it aside where it wouldn't get broken, and then went for Wilson without warning. Wilson tucked against the floor as House landed on him, curled onto his side to avoid…well, he wasn't sure what he hoped to avoid. What he ended up with was 170 pounds of diagnostician sitting on the small of his back.

"Get off," Wilson groaned. He could already feel the tender muscles there protesting the abuse. Maybe this rough play wasn't good for a middle aged man with a temperamental lumbar group.

House bounced and Wilson gasped, his eyes bulging. "Make me."

Wilson groaned and his forehead thumped against the floorboards, then he grinned a wicked smile where House wouldn't be able to see it. "Crap, _crap!_" He writhed in a manner that he hoped looked like pain, and moaned, "My back…owww…" Then he gasped for good measure and shivered a bit.

"Shit." House scrambled to get off of him, and Wilson remained in place while House bent over him and touched his cheek. "Are you okay?"

Wilson bit his lip to hide a smirk and scrunched his face up. "Mmmmm…"

"Okay…can you get up? I can't carry you." He paused and Wilson heard his knees shifting against the floor. "Do you want a vicodin?"

It was almost cruel to take advantage of House on one of the rare occasions when he actually seemed to care about Wilson's well-being, but hey. That was the game. "That safe word thing…it works both ways, right? I get to say it too?"

"Um…yeah," House replied, clearly confused but also suspicious now.

"Thought so," Wilson mumbled. "I didn't say it, by the way."

Before House could react, Wilson reared up and shoved him back, then lurched to his feet as quickly as possible. He knew that if he could just stand up, House wouldn't be able to out-maneuver him; it was too hard for him to get up off the floor to be much of a threat.

House grinned, his tongue protruding from the corner of his mouth, and drawled, "Nice."

Wilson shrugged. "I learned from the best." Then he seized House by the front of his tee – his _vintage_ tee, Wilson reminded himself – and dragged him upright before slamming him against the wall. House grunted, and then Wilson pressed their mouths together with bruising intensity. They spent a few seconds in silent war, dueling with lips and tongues and teeth. Wilson found his leg conveniently positioned between House's, and he used it to rub against the underside of his friend's erection through the denim. House's breath caught and Wilson took advantage of his distraction to plunge his tongue past House's teeth. Wilson couldn't stop himself from grinding his own confined length against House's hip in a rhythm that mirrored the swirls of his tongue along the roof of House's mouth. He felt House's hands seize him by the waist and press him in, and then those hands cupped his ass instead, hard, to bring Wilson's cock in more firmly against him, clothed though they were. He could feel the tips of House's fingers digging into his gluteus, and it was only then that he realized House was meeting his thrusts with what leverage he had.

If anything, that served to make Wilson's movements more frantic. He shoved his hands under House's shirt to pinch and twist at both his nipples, and swallowed the moans it produced, following House's body as he twisted under Wilson's hands. He practically mauled House's mouth, intent on denying him air, and they remained there, rutting in the hallway until Wilson couldn't stand to be clothed anymore. He slipped his arms around House's waist and walked backwards down the hall, crushing them together and refusing to relinquish House's mouth. It also provided him with an excuse to take on whatever weight House needed to lean on him.

Wilson was surprised when the backs of his knees hit the bed, but House must have been paying attention because he kept moving forward until Wilson overbalanced and bounced on the mattress. There was no time to stop House from climbing up over him, and Wilson laughed to see the mischievous grin on his face before their mouths crashed back together. House was heavier than he looked, though he was still on the skinny side for someone of his height. It took Wilson three tries to get enough leverage to tip him to the side, but in the time it took him to do that, he admitted that the weight pressing against his chest and the rough movements of House's hips against his groin were extremely satisfying. He was almost sorry to lose them, but the sight of House, flushed and panting below him, made up for it.

Wilson got a hold of House's left arm and crossed it over his stomach so that he could hold it in place with a combination of his own right hand and the weight of his body. House arched under him, both to bring his groin into closer contact with Wilson's, and to make a half-hearted bid at dominance. Wilson thwarted him by reaching his free hand down to grip the bulge between House's legs with firm fingers.

"_Ah…_" House swallowed several times when Wilson didn't let go, but started to alternate between squeezing and rubbing, his grip just tight enough that he knew it would hurt just a little, but the soft strokes between countered the pain more than enough to set House's breathing off and interrupt his struggles.

Wilson kept it up until House started to writhe against him, his chest heaving and his breath catching on each inhale. "'s too…too much…_nnnn_ – Wilson, stop. _Stop! _It's too much! _Ahhhmmm_!" His spine curved and he threw his head back, pressing it into the bedclothes as hard as he could and raising his torso and hips off the bed to shove against Wilson's hand. "Oh….mmm_mm_. I'm gonna come! _Wilson!_"

Finally, Wilson stilled his hand, but he didn't let go of House's denim-clad crotch. House shuddered and gulped under him, teetering on the edge, his body tensed up and hot against Wilson's. "Oh, wow," Wilson muttered, his eyes wide as he stared at his best friend caught so clearly at his most open, most vulnerable self. House had bitten his bottom lip bloody; the pleasure had to be close to torturing him at that point – so close, so much pressure, like a bowstring about to snap.

Wilson relented, and let go. The tension left House's body in a rush and he fell flat, wheezing, his eyes closed as he recovered from Wilson's teasing, completely limp and pliant, with one prominent exception. After a few breaths, House gasped, "Holy hell."

"Yeah." Wilson licked his lips and reached for his own cock with the hand he had used to grip House. He was painfully hard now, his suit pants tented and wet in spots. "Yeah, that was about the hottest thing I've ever seen."

House laughed breathlessly without opening his eyes. "Felt pretty good too."

Wilson left off palming himself and looked down. His gaze tracked to the right, to the bedpost and the restraint that he had secured there before House arrived. He had hidden it mostly under the comforter and House had not noticed it there due to the low lighting and obvious distractions. Next, Wilson looked to House's left arm, which was still pressed between them. He shifted a bit and reached for the cuff, gratified that House barely stirred in response to the movement. Wilson pulled the restraint free of the bedclothes, and before House figured out what he was doing, he straightened House's arm to the side, shoved his wrist into the cuff, and pulled the buckle closed on it.

"Hey." House's eyes flew open and he looked over at his hand trapped in the restraint. "I said I didn't want to do that."

"But you didn't say the safe word," Wilson reminded him.

"Yeah, because I figured I didn't have to." House's voice rose with his anxiety. "Come on – get this off."

"You know how to stop this," Wilson told him, surprised by how cold his voice sounded. He liked the way House's face mirrored his alarm – how his breathing grew heavier not from arousal, but from fear.

Their eyes met and House seemed to see something in Wilson's that he did not like. "I'm serious – I don't want to do this, Wilson. Don't make me say it."

"House – "

"_Please_!" He grabbed the front of Wilson's shirt with his free hand and tried to shove him toward the cuff. "Take it off!"

Wilson ignored him. If he didn't say the safe word, it was still fair play. That was the deal. He buried the twinge in the pit of his stomach that told him it was wrong to enjoy this, that something in House's demeanor was not right. The struggle was part of the game, and Wilson wasn't hurting him. He wrenched House's other hand from his shirt and moved to push him toward the cuff on the other side of the bed.

"Shit. _No_!" House thrashed under him, his left arm straining at the cuff as he fought to keep his right close to his body. "Wilson, stop it. _Stop it!_"

House was shouting now, frantic, and Wilson could actually feel himself getting harder, if that were even possible. He didn't respond, but concentrated on forcing House's right arm into position without losing his seat. House's left foot pressed into the mattress as he tried to upset Wilson's balance, and then Wilson was taken off guard when House kneed him in the side with his bad leg.

"Dammit, House!" Wilson paused long enough to rub at his bruised ribs. "That hurt!"

"Take this off," House repeated, his face unreadable. "Now."

Wilson glared at him and threw his weight forward before House had a chance to compensate. The result was House's right arm pressed flat on the bed, within reach of the other cuff. He grinned and reached for the restraint, but there were still a few inches between House's wrist and the cuff's furthest reach. He fought to move House's arm across the sheets, aware that House was once again pleading with Wilson to stop, his voice thin and uneven. "Relax," Wilson admonished, though he couldn't help the irritation that he felt.

A sound met Wilson's ears that he refused to call a sob, and then House yelped, "_Lupus_!"

Everything stopped. Wilson looked back at House's face but found it turned away. His left arm, trapped in the cuff, trembled at the strain of House pulling against the restraint, and his body shook in a way that betrayed his fear.

"Lupus," House repeated, his voice just a whisper this time. Defeat was written in every line of his body, and Wilson didn't say anything, didn't move. "Wilson…Wilson, lemme go."

Wilson's eyes drifted across the width of House's body and rested on the unused cuff laying innocently on top of a pillow, close enough that House could have brushed his fingers over it if he unclenched his fist. The tendons in House's arms were taut beneath his skin, standing out in stark relief along with veins and bunched muscles. He liked that…he like the way House looked right now, powerless against Wilson, reduced to begging… Wilson drew in several breaths, then swallowed. "No."

House's head whipped around to look at him, his eyes wide and panicked. For a moment, Wilson could see that he stopped breathing entirely. Then he mumbled in disbelief, "But I said the word. Wilson, I said – "

"I know." He turned away to regard the cuff again and House's eyes trailed his. Wilson calmly reached again for the soft restraint.

"I said the safe word – you have to stop now," House said, his voice small, the words tumbling out too fast. "You have to stop. Wilson – "

"I said no."

Wilson pulled the cuff as close as he could and then yanked on House's arm, bringing it within reach. He didn't have enough time to secure it, though, because House's left knee hit his back hard enough to send him sprawling over onto the mattress. He lost his grip as well as his seat, but untangled himself fast enough to turn and snatch House's forearm before he could reach the cuff on his left wrist. When he felt Wilson's hands on him, he curled into a ball on his left side to protect himself. Wilson leaned back and used his weight to counteract House's strength, unfolding his arm from his body and hooking it around his own elbow, as if they were doing the spinning part of the chicken dance.

"Wil-son, for god's sake!" House's breath hitched as he begged. "Stop – stop, _please_. I said it – I said lupus! Please don't, _please_!"

"Trust me, House," Wilson said. "You told me you wanted to trust me – so just trust me on this."

House gasped and strained to remain curled. "You're n-not helping your case." He hiccupped and struggled to keep Wilson from moving his arm, but Wilson had more leverage. "I s-said it. I _said_ it."

Wilson's pulling moved House's entire body across the bed, and he was almost surprised when House resumed struggling against him, more violently this time. He got Wilson to loose his grip on his arm, and they grappled for a second. House's fist closed around the front of his shirt again and Wilson couldn't pry his fingers off. He glanced up in time to see House draw his leg back – his bad leg. That alone should have told Wilson that House was desperate, that he should stop, but the situation was too thrilling, and really – no one was getting hurt. Wilson twisted before it could make impact. He truly didn't mean to swing his arm against the scarred tissue – he was aiming for the knee – but his elbow made impact with the thigh and Wilson heard House's near shriek as he convulsed in pain.

The fist in his shirt fell away, instinctively reaching to grasp the injured limb, and Wilson snatched at it before House could react. It was easy to get the cuff around his wrist this time, and only after Wilson had cinched the buckle did he register the sobs coming from over his shoulder. He looked back at House and saw him biting his lip, his eyes squeezed shut against the pain while several fat tears formed against the lids and slid off along his temples to pool in the hollows near his ears.

Only then did Wilson truly register what he had done. He turned away in shock and nearly threw up on the spot, his eyes fixed on the wall beside the bed as he tried to block out the sounds coming from his best friend. After a minute had passed, he heard words between the ragged breaths and cast a wary glance back at House's prone figure.

House was mumbling to himself, his hands clenched around the straps of the restraints, eyes still closed. Wilson leaned closer to hear what he was saying, and his stomach plummeted so quickly that he couldn't fill his lungs. "…Wilson won't hurt me…Wilson won't hurt me…It's okay – he won't hurt me…It's okay…"

Wilson opened his mouth in horror, but what could he say? He had just tied his best friend down against his will. House had begged him to stop – _repeatedly – _and Wilson had ignored him, had scared the wits out of him, had caused him pain… He had just proven House right. House shouldn't have trusted him at all.

Something inside Wilson snapped and he fled from the room, stumbling down the hall until he found the bathroom door, and then there were tiles and grout under his hands, and his face was in the toilet while he heaved and tried not to think. The retching came to an end and he just sat there, his unseeing eyes staring down at the remains of coffee and second-rate fare from the vending machine at the hospital. House would need a vicodin, he found himself thinking. He had to get House a vicodin for his leg.

Wilson made it to the living room on wobbly legs and located House's leather jacket in a pile on the desk by the door. He shook it, listening for the rattle of the pill bottle, and fished it out without conscious thought for his actions. As he turned to go back to the bedroom, his eyes alit on the takeout containers on the counter. That's right…House had bought them dinner.

Wilson's chest constricted and he fought back the urge to break down right there, staring at Chinese takeout. What the hell did _he _have to be upset about? _He _was the bastard here.

"…Wilson?…"

He turned to peer down the hallway at the lighted room at the end. House was calling him back? After all that?

"Wilson?" House's breath caught; he sounded miserable. "Are you still here?"

Wilson stood frozen.

"I'm sorry…" House's voice faded off, and Wilson's lungs froze. "I shouldn't have said it…m'sorry…Wilson?…"

He didn't want to go back in there, but he couldn't just leave House like that. Reluctant and terrified and thoroughly ashamed, Wilson made his way silently back to the bedroom. He stopped off in the bathroom to flush the toilet and fill a Dixie cup with water, then continued on and stopped at the threshold. "I brought your pills."

House started to answer but a hiccup interrupted him. Wilson hung his head and tried to avoid looking at what he'd done. "You stayed," House said, and he sounded grateful for it.

Wilson didn't answer except to pad across the floor, thumbing the cap off the pill bottle as he went. He set the Dixie cup down on the bedside table, then grasped House's hand and winced when House recoiled. All he did was tip a pill into House's palm and close his fingers around it, and then he undid the buckle on the cuff and released him. House popped the pill into his mouth but didn't take the water that Wilson held out to him. When he started to chew the vicodin, Wilson turned his back and sat down on the edge of the bed, his knees weak. He didn't want to watch that.

House drew a few calming breaths behind him, and then repeated, "I'm sorry, Wilson. I – "

"Why are _you_ apologizing?!" Wilson yelled. He turned in time to see House flinch at the volume of his voice, and immediately regretted it. "I don't know what got into me," he babbled. "I couldn't think, I just saw you laying there and all I could think was that I liked the way you looked, and I wanted…I wanted…"

"You wanted to make me suffer," House finished for him, and Wilson automatically shook his head. "You wanted to get back at me for everything I've done to you. For ruining your practice when Vogler was around, and for setting Tritter on you, and for killing Amber – "

"You didn't kill Amber," Wilson countered. "I wanted to blame you for it – I told you that already – but I – "

" – did," House interrupted. "You did, just now."

Wilson shook his head, but he couldn't exactly deny it. "House, I am _so_ sorry."

"It's okay," House assured him.

House's voice was uncharacteristically soft, and it scared Wilson to hear it. "It's not okay. I – "

"I know." House's back remained facing Wilson, and he had yet to remove the other cuff. His free hand pressed in on the abused muscle of his thigh. "It's okay. I get it."

Wilson's jaw worked in total silence, and then he shook his head as a realization hit him. "Why don't you ever blame me for any of the things I've done to you? I can't even think of one time I've apologized to you before tonight, but you still forgive me. All the time, every time I say or do something that humiliates you, or hurts you…you forgive me. Why is that?"

House shrugged without turning around. "You don't mean to do it."

"House, I _laughed_ at you when the ketamine started to wear off. I didn't order a pet scan, I didn't have you do any range-of-motion exercises; I just called you old and went back to my paperwork. I shouldn't be surprised that you stole my prescription pad – I refused to help you when you asked for it. Why aren't you mad at me?"

"I _was_ mad," House replied.

"And now?"

House's shoulders moved to betray his discomfort. "Now I'm not anymore."

Wilson turned to stare at his hands, and then shifted on the bed so that he could look at House without craning his neck. "Why did you agree to do the DBS?"

The silence stretched heavy between them, and then House's head lowered as if he were ashamed of the answer. "Because you asked me to."

"You could have said no," Wilson pressed, but House shook his head.

"No. I couldn't have."

That was too much for Wilson. He found his feet and rushed out of the room, then out of the apartment all together, sickened with himself and wishing that he could crawl into a hole somewhere and die. The car ride back to his apartment passed in a timeless sea of preoccupation, and he pushed through his door just as he realized that his shirt was still at House's place.

Wilson shook from more than just the cold and stamped down the hallway to the bathroom, where he stripped without much thought to what he was doing. His cell phone rang once and he looked at the display to see House's name on the caller ID. Wilson's chest constricted and his vision blurred. He set the phone down on the edge of the sink without opening it, turned the shower on as hot as it would go, and crawled into the tub to sit under the scalding spray. His cell phone rang four more times on the counter, and then his home line jangled through the apartment. House must have called him twenty times before he stopped, though he didn't leave a single message. Wilson just sat in the corner of the tub and shivered until the water ran cold, then sat under the cold water instead.

* * *

Wilson had no idea how long he'd been sitting there when the shower curtain swished aside. He was too cold to bother looking, both inside and out; the shivering had long since ceased. Warm, rough hands pawed at his face, and then he heard uneven footsteps leave the room. They came back a minute later and a blanket found its way over his body. He was eased forward a bit so that another blanket could be worked in behind him, and then he settled back against the tiles in a warm cocoon. He didn't deserve this, but he couldn't work up the will to move.

The toilet lid clinked as someone lowered it, and then creaked under the weight of a body. A few seconds later, a cluster of irregular beeps and cartoon music reached his ears. Wilson roused from his stupor and looked up to find House seated on the toilet lid, busy with his gameboy. He blinked at the illusion, but it didn't disperse, and the blankets wrapped around his body were real.

House broke the silence without glancing up from his toy. "You didn't answer your phone."

Wilson blinked again. "Why are you here? Why aren't you reporting me to the cops or something?"

"Lobby was full. Didn't feel like waiting." He continued jabbing buttons with his thumbs, seemingly indifferent. "Besides. Who'd feed me if you went off and did something stupid?" He scowled at the game, hit pause, and finally looked up. "Speaking of food, I brought the Chinese with me. It's cold now, but we can stick it in the microwave. Figured, since neither of us ate yet, we might get hungry."

"House…what are you doing here?" Wilson asked again.

"I already told you." He returned to his game and hit the resume button as if nothing were amiss. "You didn't answer your phone."

Wilson stared at him, irritated but also humbled, and still completely disgusted with himself. "I could've seriously hurt you."

"But you didn't."

"I nearly - "

"It was like before, in the living room."

"What?" Wilson tried to figure out what House was talking about; their two encounters were nothing alike. The first one had been…nice…tender, even. The second was a nightmare.

"On the couch, before you knew I liked it…you were having fun." House sighed and tilted the gameboy as if to shake his player where he wanted it to go. "But on the floor, when you actually _did_ hurt me, you wanted to stop. I had to talk you out of it." He pursed his lips in frustration and swore at the game before continuing. "It was the same thing on the bed. We were fighting, but when you actually hurt me, you stopped. You didn't like it."

House's fingers kept on pressing buttons and the cartoon theme repeated over, and over, and over…it was driving Wilson nuts. "House – "

"It was just an accident, okay? The pills fixed it. Quit worrying about it." He frowned at the game and paused it again, then let his head hang between his shoulder blades. "If you hadn't hit my leg, it would've been fine. I was…enjoying it…up until then. I really was."

"You were afraid of me," Wilson argued.

"Yeah, but I knew you wouldn't do anything bad to me. I liked that feeling. I didn't have any control over any of it, but it was okay because…because…" He trailed off and flopped his hand in a helpless gesture, then treated Wilson to the most open, honest stare he had ever seen in those blue depths. "I need this. I can't trust anyone else."

Wilson searched for some way to object to that just on principle. "You can trust your mom," he said, though the fact that Wilson couldn't think of anyone besides her was pretty pathetic.

House averted his gaze and let his head lower again. "My mom," he said slowly, "let my dad do some stuff to me that he shouldn't have. I love her. But I can't trust her."

This revelation drew Wilson's brow down in furrows over his eyes, and he looked to the bathtub grout like it could whisper the correct response in his ear and save them both from the discussion.

"I think I'm gonna leave," House mumbled. His cane was already in his hand and he'd started to lever himself upright. "You're fine now."

"Wait!" Wilson scrambled to get his feet planted on the slick tile and nearly fell out of the tub. House stepped back to avoid Wilson falling on him, but he waited in the doorway, his cane in one hand and the game boy gripped in the other. Something wary swam behind House's eyes when Wilson approached him, the edges of the blanket trailing along the floor, but he didn't move away or flinch when Wilson reached for him. Wilson's hand closed on air near House's shoulder. "I…"

House nodded as if he'd said something coherent, and let a smile ghost over his lips.

"_Do_ you trust me?" Wilson dared to ask.

The smile faded, and though House fidgeted, he didn't look away while he shook his head. "I told you that earlier. I _want_ to."

"But you don't, and you _shouldn't_, so why even bother trying?" House looked away at that one, but Wilson thought he had his answer. "You…you have feelings for me."

"Don't flatter yourself," House snapped. "You're the only one around – not like I have much choice." His cane thumped the floor, an extension of his sudden anger and the mixed emotions that must have percolated in him at the admission.

"Yeah, I know," Wilson agreed, though House's words humbled him. "I know." His hand was still grasping air at House's shoulder, and he unclenched it to wrap it around the back of House's neck. House tensed but allowed Wilson to draw him close enough that his lips could reach House's jaw. Before he touched them to House's skin, however, he made eye contact again, waiting for permission this time.

A hundred different nameless things passed behind the outward nonchalance of House's expressive face, and then his eyes slid closed and he nodded.

Wilson kept it light, practically impersonal, to the point where he was certain House would grow impatient and try to up the stakes, but he didn't. He just stood there and allowed Wilson to keep placing chaste kisses on his face and neck, his muscles just tense enough that Wilson knew he wasn't entirely comfortable.

Wilson persisted with his own unique brand of apology. House was right – there was something off about Wilson. People thought House was the screwed up member of this friendship, but Wilson wasn't much better. Intimacy, sometimes misplaced, and shallow at that, was the only way he could relate to other people…the only comfort he could offer. House must know that, that must be why he hadn't left yet; he was giving Wilson a chance to make up for his breach of trust in the only manner Wilson knew.

"You know this is screwed up, right?" Wilson asked. He couldn't stop himself from saying it.

House nodded and angled a bit toward Wilson. "Doesn' matter."

"Okay." Wilson reached down and took his cane from his hand, leaning it against the sink, and then pried the gameboy from the other and set it on the toilet seat. "I won't ignore you if you say it this time. In fact, if I do, I'll go to the police myself. Save you the trouble of sitting around in the lobby."

House smiled, finally, and a small laugh escaped him. "Don't bother. I won't press charges."

"That's not a comfort to me," Wilson told him sharply. He snaked his hands around House's waist and nudged his pelvis forward. "I don't like that you think so little of yourself. You shouldn't just let me – "

"Shut up, Wilson."

House's mouth cut off any further admonitions and Wilson let him take control for the moment. House's tongue was tentative in his mouth, careful not to push, intent but reluctant. Wilson coaxed him on with soft brushes of his fingertips over the planes of House's face, then a stronger grip around House's neck as he pressed them a bit more firmly together. Wilson backed House up against the door jamb and then leaned the full length of his body against him. The blanket fell away, leaving Wilson painfully aware of his own nakedness chafing against House's clothed body. He rubbed himself over the denim of House's jeans and sighed in relief at the stir that answered him from House's loins.

They stumbled out of the bathroom a minute later, Wilson's hands tucked up the back of House's shirt and digging in against his skin. House's hands still hung at his sides, occasionally reaching out to steady them against the wall, but the only contact he initiated was with his mouth. Wilson wished House would just touch him, take his arm, anything. The submissive nature of his actions pulled Wilson's heart into pieces; he felt like he was taking advantage even though House had granted him permission.

The bedroom loomed over House's shoulder and Wilson pushed him toward it more urgently, his grasp tightening around House's body. His hands found their ways to the small of House's back, and he shoved his fingers a few inches beneath the waistband of his jeans. House grunted into his mouth and exhaled, and Wilson's tongue delved forward, moving faster, trying to get a rise out of him, something he could work against.

As they passed the doorway, House's arms finally rose to encircle him, and Wilson's eyes clamped shut. He didn't want House to see how relieved he was, how important it was to have him touch him. Blunt nails and calloused palms raked across Wilson's back, then settled at his hips and pulled him in, _hard_.

"_Mng_." Wilson exhaled forcefully and his eyes flew back open. That had almost been too rough, but he reflected that he deserved it. House's lids were still tightly lowered, the corners of his eyes creased under crinkled brows. House ground his pelvis forward and Wilson grunted again at the rough material abrading his bare skin. He shivered in the cold air and then couldn't stop the whimper that made it out when House's zipper scratched across his sensitive parts.

House pulled back abruptly. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing."

Wilson tried to pull his body back against him, but House held himself apart. "What did I do?"

"_No_thing," Wilson insisted, and forced them back together. His mouth prevented any further discussion, and House's fingertips dug in at Wilson's hips.

Their feet tripped over some random object on the floor, and Wilson ended up with the corner of his dresser making a sharp indent in his side. House bumped against Wilson, his arm out to catch the edge of the dresser, and Wilson hugged him close to keep his weight as much on his good leg as possible. Once they regained their balance, Wilson looked down to see House's backpack, which had tipped over. It was open, probably from when House had grabbed his gameboy on the way back to the bathroom with the blankets, and Wilson's guts danced a nauseating sort of foxtrot inside his abdomen. House had rolled the restraints up and tucked them neatly inside to nestle against Wilson's dress shirt, which was also carefully folded.

"I thought, if you wanted to try them again – " House started.

Wilson shoved House back without thinking and grabbed the backpack. He plucked his shirt out and hurled it across the room, then wrapped trembling fists around the restraints and hauled them out. A few angry steps brought him to the garbage can, and Wilson flung the restraints into it with more violence than he thought possible, made even more furious by the way House shrank as he passed him, as if he thought Wilson was going for _him_. He bent down and knotted the plastic liner, fumbling his fingers at the task because he was shaking too hard to control his movements, and then he took the liner to the doorway and threw it as far from the room as he could.

He turned back to find House perched precariously beside the bedpost, his eyes wide and wary, and yet _trusting_.

"_Never_ again," Wilson ground out between teeth that chattered against his words. "I don't _ever_ want to see those again. And I don't want _you_ going along with it if I try. _Promise_ me!"

House nodded without hesitation, speechless.

"Good." Wilson propelled himself forward and crashed into his best friend, dragging him around and shoving him stomach-first against the dresser. He covered House's back with his own body, waited for House to brace his weight, and then worked his hands into the front of House's jeans without further hesitation.

"Oh, shit," House gasped, breathing more heavily. He spread his legs, awkwardly angled to the left, and Wilson shoved his hands into House's boxers, down far enough to grip at the highest part of House's inner thighs. "_Mmmm_!"

House's head dropped down, his eyes squeezed shut and his mouth pressed in a tight line, nostrils flared as Wilson's fingers caressed and dug into the skin edging House's balls, his thumbs drawing small, precise circles just above the base of House's penis. He didn't touch anything important, not yet; he just played with the sensitive skin surrounding House's genitals, reveling in the feel of him, the smell, the solid presence of his body turning to putty – or, in a more House-appropriate comparison, Play-do – in his hands.

"Ohmygod." House sighed "I think you might actually be illegal in the contiguous United States."

"The fact that you can still come up with a four-syllable word begs to differ." Wilson nipped harmlessly at the skin of House's neck, then moved his face down. He wanted the shirt off, but he also didn't want to stop what he was doing with his hands because it made House moan even though he tried to swallow it back. Wilson found the mere sound of that erotic. "Get your shirt off."

"Hm?"

Wilson pinched the skin of House's inner thigh, dangerously close to his balls, and House's pelvis jerked forward with a sharp whimper. Apparently, he liked that. "Your shirt. Get it off."

House immediately reached to grasp the fabric between his shoulder blades and yank it over his head. It left his hair static-puffed on end around the slight balding patch at his crown. He threw the shirt aside and leaned his hand back on the dresser before his legs could buckle.

Wilson increased the pressure of his hands below and House exhaled with a bit of sound thrown in for good measure. A smile graced Wilson's lips and he concentrated the attentions of his mouth on House's shoulder blades, nosing the skin before sucking and nipping lightly, each press of teeth earning him a happy twitch from the man beneath him. He could feel the swelling near his thumbs as blood rushed to fill House's cock, and he inched nearer to the base, pleased at the whine that he heard before House bit his lip to silence himself. It gave Wilson an idea, and he chose a place at the edge of House's scapula to cover with his mouth. Then he simultaneously bit down hard, and moved one hand to encircle and squeeze House's cock.

"Mm_nnnn-ang_!" House gasped and panted, his hips quivering in an effort not to thrust. "_Shi_…Wil_son_."

The sound of House's voice, lusty and touching on soprano, left Wilson light-headed with the sudden rush of blood to his groin. He breathed heavily against the mark on House's shoulder blade and mumbled, "Damn."

"Yeah," House agreed, his voice still stuck in the higher registers. Wilson squeezed again and this time House couldn't stop himself from pushing forward into his fingers. "Mmph. Stop it. I don't want it over yet."

Wilson laughed and squeezed House again, just for fun, but by the time House thrust forward, there was only the fly of his own jeans to cushion him. Wilson drew both hands out of House's pants and unbuttoned them from behind, drawing the zipper carefully down over House's straining erection and noting how damp everything was down there. He worked the jeans and the boxers off, shoving them as far as House's knees, and then he leaned back in and wrapped his arms up around House's chest, his hands snaking up to House's shoulders in something resembling a wrestling hold. Wilson's own leaking cock settled to rub in the cleft of House's ass, and Wilson felt the rumble in House's chest as he purred his contentment.

Wilson wrapped his left leg around House's and toed his jeans the rest of the way down, his cock caressing House's backside as he carefully maintained both their balances. Once House stepped out of the remainder of his clothes, Wilson spun them around and toppled them both over onto the bed with no thought for how they fell. He flipped House over and attacked his mouth, kissed him into submission, threw his weight forward and _forced_ House to let him care for once.

House gasped and let out a breathy sort of half-moan, something too high in pitch to be called lustful but not anything that conveyed discomfort. "Chill out, Wilson. I haven't gone anywhere."

That only made Wilson try harder to assure him that the trust he had seen in that one look, after he threw out the restraints, was well-placed. He shoved House down into the bedclothes and latched his mouth against House's collar bone, lifting his leg over House's waist while he nipped and bit, leaving marks because he knew House liked it. Wilson's hand groped around until he found House's cock where it rested against his stomach, and he treated House to several long, languorous pulls.

"Ohhh_hhho_-kay, you do whatever you want," House moaned, arching up into Wilson's hand, pressing against his body. He flinched into each bite and gasped, his hands tangled up in Wilson's hair, twisting until Wilson thought it might come out at the roots.

Wilson didn't care. He kept suckling and stroking, laving each mark with his tongue until he found a nipple protruding against his taste buds, and he bit that too.

"Aaah_hahh. Nnnnn_." House choked on his own breath and convulsed, thrusting his cock as hard into Wilson's hand as he could manage with Wilson's weight spread out overtop of him. "Slow down, seriously. Slow…oh…_down_, please…_god!_"

He keened as Wilson kept going, tightening his fist, but House yanked painfully on his hair. Wilson shifted his grip to encircle the base of House's cock, pressing down and ceasing all motion, and House jerked under him, his breath frozen on the plateau. Wilson reached to brush the sweat from House's brow. "Breathe. Come on, House."

"Nnn_nngg_…" House finally exhaled, his chest shuddering under the ragged exit of breath.

Wilson spent a few minutes soothing him, running his fingers down House's face and along his body, counting his pulse as it slowed but maintaining his grip on House's penis, keeping it rigid, engorged.

Eventually, House opened his eyes, peering at Wilson with thinly suppressed desire, and licked his swollen lips. "Now what?"

"Now what?"

Wilson knew that House only referred to the present moment, but that question held a more loaded meaning for Wilson. Now what, indeed? He toyed with the tufts of hair sweat-plastered to House's temple and let go of his cock now that House was no longer in imminent danger of spilling over the edge. House's hands were laying limp on the bedspread, palms up, and Wilson glanced down to see if the cuffs had left bruises on his wrists. They had not.

"I don't need you going all gooey on me," House complained. "Quit being such a girl."

Wilson quickly looked back at his face in response to the bitterness in his tone. The wariness had crept back in to tinge the edges of his eyes, and Wilson couldn't hold that gaze for more than a few seconds. "Sorry," he muttered, painfully aware of where he was, of the sharp angles that shaped the body beneath him. He wished he'd never initiated this – any of this. But it was done. Now he had to find a way to put things to rights.

"Wilson?"

"Stop talking." He shimmied lower on House's body and coaxed his legs farther apart so that he could settle there with easy access to House's groin.

"Um…that's not exactly what I had in mind," House told him.

"Quit worrying about it."

"Wilson, come on. You don't have to do that."

"Why not?" Wilson looked up to meet his eyes, expecting something patently House-ish, but what he found was concern, and a bit of discomfort.

House's gaze flickered off to the side, then returned to Wilson's. "It's degrading."

Wilson's brows climbed upwards. "What are you talking about? What sort of man declines a blow job?"

"That's – " House's jaw worked in irritation and Wilson watched him war with himself over what he wanted to say. "You aren't down there to give me a blow job. You're down there because you think you deserve to be punished for what happened earlier. I don't want you debasing yourself on my dick."

"But…then…" Wilson looked around with the insane hope of finding helpful words floating somewhere in the room. "Then I'll bottom."

"_No!_" House grabbed his bad leg so that he could lift over Wilson and sit up. "What the hell is wrong with you? I said it's okay – you can send the martyr brigade away now."

Wilson sat up too and settled on his knees behind House. "What do you expect me to do, House? I can't just forget – "

"No kidding. You never forget _anything_, do you? This is just some other mistake that you can rub in my face later, isn't it? You have to keep reminding me about how I make myself miserable, and how Saint Jimmy tried to make it all better, but the nasty Doctor House just won't listen to reason." His voice turned mocking. "Oh, Greg, why can't you just let me help? Why do you have to be so difficult? You and your damn pride, and your stupid ego, you just _love_ wallowing in your dark little hole." He shuffled to the edge of the bed and gingerly lowered his right foot to the floor. "Like I enjoy the fact that nobody can stand me and half the hospital staff hates my guts, and that I had to stalk you just to get you to talk to me again – "

Wilson tackled him before he could go any further and sucked the air from his lungs to stop any other words that might have been poised in his throat. House made a few protesting noises but Wilson refused to let anything coherent come of them. He somehow managed to get House back up in the center of the bed, and then he reached to fumble on the nightstand until his fingers found a jar of Vaseline. The lid came off without much difficulty, and he scooped out a generous amount to smear along his fingers and the palm of his hands. All the while, his mouth remained sealed over House's, and he noted that House's hands were stroking along his flanks, maybe to try and calm him down. Wilson couldn't really tell, what with House's erect penis poking him in the stomach.

Wilson was needy and excited and filled with desire, but he refrained from any contact with his own member. His focus was on the man sprawled beneath him – his friend – and Wilson concentrated on making House feel good. He slicked up his fingers and then discarded the nearly empty jar before moving about to kneel around House's left leg. Wilson kept himself hard by undulating slowly against House's thigh, and grabbed a handful of pillows to shove under House's hips, angling his pelvis to give Wilson access. House watched his preparations with a lustful yet baffled glint to his eyes, but he didn't object.

When Wilson closed his fist around House's cock, House's head fell back and stayed there. Beads of Cowper's fluid formed at the head and Wilson used his thumb to spread it around before setting a sharp but steady pace with his slick left hand. With his right, he felt around House's opening and then pressed at the muscles without breaching the barrier. House's hips canted upwards at the stimulation, and Wilson added his thumb to the equation, pressing the perineum as he rubbed his index finger over House's anus again.

A low moan rumbled out of House's body, and Wilson watched his hands clench and bunch in the blankets. While maintaining a constant pressure against House's perineum with his thumb, Wilson slipped his finger inside House's body and crooked it until he found the prostate. House jumped under his hands, his knuckles whitening around fists full of bedclothes. He slowly, gently massaged the little node to give House the maximum amount of pleasure without sending him careening into an orgasm, and House's body tensed, arced back against the bed. He tried to shove himself down on Wilson's finger, but Wilson didn't allow him enough leverage. He twisted his hand to get his middle finger in as well, and House jerked and moaned, dragging the blanket up towards his armpits as he tensed and squirmed, parting his legs even farther.

Wilson scooted forward, and this time, when he lowered his mouth over the straining organ in his hand, House was incapable of protesting. The bitterness tasted strange but Wilson took it without complaint, pressing the tip of his tongue along the slit and sucking at the tip of House's cock as if it were a Tootsie Pop. He squeezed and kneaded the lower portion of House's length while his tongue circled and danced over the sweet spot just below the head. His right hand continued at its task, thumb wiggling against House's perineum, fingers rhythmically nudging his prostate until House was a writhing, liquid mess before him.

The noise reached Wilson's ears as if from underwater. He was so intent on his self-appointed task that he hadn't noticed House grunting and moaning, begging him alternately to stop and keep going. Wilson chose to obey the latter plea and intensified his efforts, sucking House farther into his mouth and flattening his tongue along the underside of his cock while he created suction and fluttered his cheeks along House's length. His tempo against House's prostate increased, and House bucked up into his mouth, unable to control himself as Wilson attacked every erogenous zone he could reach at the same time. Before he knew it, the tip of House's cock was hitting the back of his throat, and Wilson fought off the urge to gag. He swallowed convulsively around the hotness that spurted into his mouth, surprised by the sensation but accepting it as his due.

House pumped into his mouth a few more times, and then Wilson let his penis slip from between his lips as it began to soften. He also stilled his own movements against House's leg; he didn't want to come that way, rutting like an animal. House quaked in the aftermath and Wilson kept nudging at House's prostate to prolong the tail end of the orgasm until House's gasps turned from desperate, helpless sounds of pleasure to groans of discomfort from over-stimulation.

Wilson withdrew his fingers and wiped them against the already-dirty bedspread, then climbed up House's body to drape himself over House's sweaty torso. Unwilling to look at him, Wilson stared instead down the planes of House's body, past the scar until he found House's feet. His toes twitched every few seconds as he came down from the height of bliss and Wilson smiled at it, though his thoughts were inexplicably sad.

"I thought," House panted, "I told I didn't want you to – "

"I wasn't debasing myself," Wilson interrupted.

House probably knew it was a lie, but he let it be. Then he shifted and felt the hardness pressed in at his hip. He lifted his head just enough to confirm that Wilson hadn't come. "Hey. Do you want me to…?" House gestured southward.

Wilson shook his head. "Don't worry about it. I don't need it." House appeared confused, but he settled back without comment and allowed Wilson to wrap back around his body. Wilson felt himself gradually soften against House's skin, leaving behind an unsatisfied feeling, but it was okay. He didn't want fulfillment right now, and the ache soothed him. "I think I have feelings for you too."

"No, you don't." House's voice was flat, matter-of-fact.

Wilson turned his head to look at House's face. "Is it really so hard to believe that I might feel something for you?"

House's eyes rolled up to stare at the ceiling, and he seemed to consider that carefully before he answered. "Yes. You're a serial carer. That doesn't mean there's any actual feeling behind it."

That wasn't the sort of honesty that Wilson wanted – or needed – to hear. He let his head drop back down to House's chest and tightened his arm across House's torso, uneasy but unwilling to let go.

"Don't worry; I like you this way," House assured him. "Makes you interesting."

Wilson smiled but he knew that the expression didn't make it to any other part of his face. "Yeah. Wouldn't want you to get bored."

--TBC


	3. Aftermath

Hi, all. Thanks to all of you for reviewing. I'm sorry I haven't had time to respond – work and family can get so time-consuming, lol. But I appreciate every read and comment.

A/N – A "Mulligan" is a golfing term. On a bad stroke, a player can call a mulligan and get a do-over. It's considered sort of a sissy thing that only girls do, dating back to its origin in Scotland. Hope you enjoy the chapter!

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Wilson woke up cold and pawed around, searching for blankets. Instead of something soft and warm, his questing hand ended up in a pile of something cold and sticky. "What the…oh." That's right – House. He lifted his head and looked at the rest of the bed, expecting to see House curled up in an armful of purloined blankets, but the space beside him was empty. It's not like Wilson could blame him for leaving the first chance he got, not after all that had happened the night before.

The carpet was cool but soft underfoot, and Wilson sloughed to the bathroom to relieve himself. He swore when he discovered the bath mat, sopping wet from his escapade in the shower, along with a wet blanket in the bathtub and another bunched in the doorway. The blankets ended up in the hamper, and then Wilson turned to pee. He stopped when he noticed the gameboy sitting on the toilet bowl, and then ended up staring at it while he emptied his bladder. House's cane, at least, was gone.

His apartment was just starting to get light with the breaking of a dull gray dawn, and Wilson found his way easily through the living room, intent on a pot of coffee that he seriously considered lacing with something from his liquor collection. He was nowhere near the caliber of drinker that House was, but some things called for an extra nip or two in the morning.

He had made it all the way through to the turning on of the coffee maker before he realized that some of the light in his living room came from the television, and House was sitting in the middle of the couch with half a dozen cartons of Chinese takeout scattered across Wilson's coffee table. Wilson made his way cautiously to the back of the couch, and then blinked at the muted infomercial, where some busty blond was learning how to operate someone else's (patented, according to the scrolling caption) vegetable mincer.

House reached for an extra set of chopsticks and extended them to Wilson without turning from the television. "There's plenty."

Wilson took the proferred utensils and sat down in the chair, his brain on autopilot. "Pumpkin's not a vegetable," he felt compelled to point out.

"It's the only thing on." House shoved more lo mein noodles into his mouth and continued to stare straight ahead.

"That can't be it. I've got like a hundred channels."

House leaned forward and jabbed at the remote, and the screen switched over to a classic Star Trek episode.

Wilson chose a container of beef broccoli and then took note of the television. "House…neither of us can stand Star Trek."

"Then shut up." House hit the back button and the vegetable mincer filled the screen again.

Wilson sighed and plunged his chopsticks into the container, disturbed by the gelatinous quality of the sauce. He tried to wipe most of it off of the piece of broccoli that he selected, and the reason for the lumpiness became apparent when he got it into his mouth. He made a disgusted face and spit the broccoli back into the container.

"What the hell?" House demanded. "I was going to eat some of that."

"House, it's cold!" Wilson replied. "You didn't even stick it in the microwave." House groused something about not being able to do anything about it now that Wilson had gone and put his mouth all over it, and Wilson plunked the container back on the coffee table. "Oh, save it. You already know where my mouth's been." He got up and stomped back to the kitchen to pour himself a cup of coffee.

"Bring me some too," House demanded from the other room.

Wilson shut his eyes momentarily, then found a second mug, poured them both coffee, and grumped back to the living room. "Here. Now quit whining."

"Geez. Little Jimmy's just a ball of fun when he doesn't get any."

Wilson took a sip of coffee, and then mumbled, "Ass."

"I'm not the ass this time," House replied.

Wilson peered over at him in the half-light, then sighed and laced his fingers together around his coffee mug.

"This is where you protest and give all sorts of justifications for why I should take it back."

"How about I stipulate to the argument," Wilson replied, "and we just agree that you're right, since you're _always_ right."

"Oh, you." House pointed his chopsticks at Wilson and winked. "Always trying to butter me up." There was something strained about his good mood, though, and it made Wilson uncomfortable.

Wilson shifted and took another sip of coffee. "Yeah. That's what I'm doing. Your ego's not quite big enough yet – it still fits through the doors at work. And I know how much you hate work."

House snorted into his noodles and went on eating, and Wilson watched him. "Quit staring."

"You have noodle stuck in your stubble."

House started and brushed at his chin, then felt all over his face when he couldn't find anything. He scowled. "Nice."

Wilson smirked.

They watched the rest of the infomercial in silence punctuated only by the scratch of chopsticks and the slosh of coffee. Finally, Wilson couldn't take it any longer, and he slammed his mug down onto the coffee table. House jumped and stared at him with the container of General Tsao's held under his chin so he didn't drip.

"What are we going to do about this?" Wilson demanded.

House sedately resumed chewing, and then swallowed before he answered. Wilson knew that it was only a delaying tactic; House talked with his mouth full all the time. "Nothing?"

"That's so like you. Ignore it, and it'll just magically cease to matter."

"I didn't say it wouldn't matter," House countered. He set the chicken carton down, stuck the chopsticks in the rice carton, and settled back on Wilson's couch. "What do _you_ think we should do about it?"

Wilson sputtered for a second because he didn't have an answer. He _hated_ when House did that – turned the issue around to reveal Wilson's ignorance. Socratic bastard. "We, well – we should talk." He gestured around as if this should have been obvious, and some invisible audience should acknowledge that for him. Then he looked at House again, expectant. "Well?"

House's penetrating stare drilled Wilson into the back of his chair, and then he said, "You can't just lay this on me. _You_ started it."

"I – I – well, yeah." Wilson's hand found the back of his neck, and then he made an irritated sound, snatched his hand back, and forced it to stay resting on the arm of the chair. "But you, and me, and – "

"Do you trust me?"

Wilson stuttered himself into silence and stared at his best friend. "What?"

"Do _you_ trust _me_?" House repeated. "It's a simple question."

"No it's not."

"So the answer's no." House nodded, his eyes trained somewhere near the ceiling, and then he shrugged. "Makes sense, all things considered."

"What? No…" Wilson blinked too many times in a row and wondered if nervous tics could cause stupidity. "I mean…no. What?"

House exhaled, amused. "Exactly."

"House – "

"I don't like what you did last night," House interrupted forcefully. It was like the previous banter had just been a necessary filler while he worked up the nerve to say it. "Not the thing at my place. The thing here. That wasn't cool."

Wilson nodded, then looked down and nodded again.

"You don't even know which part I'm talking about, do you?"

Wilson shook his head.

House sighed. "The end part. Now I owe you one."

"What? House, don't be stupid."

"You're not one of my hookers," House insisted. Wilson looked up to find him glowering from the couch, his eyes dark and serious for once. "If I wanted that, I'd pay for it."

Wilson pressed his hands against the sides of his head and gave a nervous, humorless laugh. "That's – House, you're being an idiot. I wanted to do it. I wanted – " He broke off abruptly when he noticed a wad of cash floating under nose. "What the hell…?"

"Take it." House waved the bills in Wilson's face, his expression unreadable. "Go on."

"What? No!" Wilson shoved his hand aside and tried to hide against the arm of his chair. "Knock it off."

"_Take it!_" House shouted, and then he was on his feet and in Wilson's face, shoving the bills into Wilson's hand, which he then flung at Wilson's own chest. "That's obviously what you want!"

"No it _isn't_! What the hell's the matter with you?" Now Wilson was on his feet too, and he scattered the bills all over the floor when he tried to throw them back in House's face.

"You don't _get it_, do you?" House hollered back, ignoring the flutter of cash. "That was humiliating! You humiliated yourself, and you made me part of it! I _don't_ wanna be part of that! You aren't supposed _do_ those things for me! You're supposed – you – " House shook his head, incoherent at that point and too angry to care. He reached behind himself for his cane and thumped from the room, leaving a stunned, wide-eyed Wilson in his wake. From the hallway, he heard House yell, "You're supposed to take something back! I'm _not_ some charity case, and I'm not your – your _john_, you fucking idiot!"

"Oh," Wilson whispered to himself. He got it now. House thumped back into the room with his backpack hanging from his shoulder, his shoes in his free hand, and made for the door. "Wait – "

"Fuck you," House muttered, and kept going.

"House, I was just trying to make it up to you!" Wilson ran forward and blocked the door, and for a second, he thought House might actually hit him with his cane. "I just wanted to pay you back, okay? I wanted – "

"I _forgave_ you," House interjected. "There was nothing to _make up_." He reached for the door handle, but Wilson moved to block him again. "_Dammit_, get out of my way!"

"No." Wilson flinched at the fury on House's face, but he didn't budge. "You're not riding your bike like this – you'll end up in an accident. Just…just sit down and cool off. You can leave then."

House's mouth worked around silent curses, but he finally turned back into the room after a last flaring of his nostrils and the vehement display of his middle finger. Wilson let out a sigh of relief and followed him back to the living room, where he winced at the force with which House flung his backpack to the floor and flopped onto the couch. In full-on sulk mode, House crossed his arms over his chest and fumed.

Wilson remained standing, outside of the range of House's cane. "I didn't think it'd make you feel that way," he offered.

"How _did_ you think it would make me feel?"

Wilson shook his head and didn't bother to stop his hand from rubbing the back of his neck. "I dunno. I just wanted _me_ to feel better."

"That didn't make you feel better, it made you feel worse. And don't play it like you thought it would do anything else. You knew it wouldn't fix anything the second you started doing it."

"Yeah." Wilson tried to think of something else to say, but all he ended up doing was sinking onto the cushion on the opposite end of the couch from his best (maybe soon-to-be-former-best) friend. "You're right. I don't know what I was thinking."

"Seems like you pretty much stopped thinking the second you walked into my office last night," House pointed out.

Wilson merely nodded his agreement.

Some time passed. An exercise show came on, and Wilson stared at the woman in the leotard as she flexed and bent and gyrated, and pretty much put on a pole-dance without benefit of a pole.

"Mulligan?"

Wilson turned his head and looked over at House, who was picking at the handle of his cane. House using a golf metaphor – that was endearing, considering the special (not in a good way) place that golf occupied in his life. It made Wilson smile. "Mulligans are for girls."

"You _are_ a girl. We've been over this."

Wilson gave a self-deprecating snort. "Yeah. Mulligan."

House nodded. "Good, cuz I didn't wanna leave four-hundred bucks scattered on your floor again just to make a point."


	4. Mulligan

Thanks to all of you who read and/or commented on the other chapters. I appreciate it, and I hope you like this one!

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Wilson blinked and continued to stare up at the ceiling of House's darkened apartment. For once, it wasn't the uneven springs in the lumpy couch that kept him up. By all rights, he should have passed out hours ago. They'd polished off a six pack between them while staring at the television, and for once, House had only been responsible for one of the empty cans on the coffee table; Wilson hadn't really given him a chance to have more. Plus, they had gorged themselves on Thai takeout and it was Thursday, finally, after a long and exhausting week of late work nights. By all rights, Wilson should be unconscious right now.

He looked over at the digital display on the television and sighed. Three-forty-two in the morning. Not even House was up at this hour. Wilson shifted and rearranged the blanket, then fumbled to reshape the pillow, but it was no use. All he could think about was the last time they'd gotten together for movie night. It wasn't like Wilson was desperate for sex; he had outlets. But that night…on the floor…to hell with the disaster that had come after – that first time had been _un_believably hot. He shuddered at the remembrance – one that he played over and over and over again at the most inopportune moments, like in the cafeteria when House leaned forward on his elbows and smirked across the table with his tongue poking out between his teeth…or in the clinic when Wilson passed by to glimpse him molesting a lollipop…or worse, when House would turn and limp away, and Wilson just _had_ to stare at the picture moving down the hall in a lopsided gait, recalling what it had felt like to press himself against –

He shuddered. House's couch was not the place for that.

They hadn't said a word about the incident with the cuffs in the two weeks since they shouted at each other in Wilson's living room. If Wilson hadn't known better, he would have sworn that nothing porn-worthy had ever actually happened. He drove House to work a few times when the roads were bad, and they had lunch together most days in the cafeteria. They made fun of clinic patients, they did consults…

And then House had invited him over – had reinitiated movie night. Wilson admitted that some part of him was sort of hoping for a replay of the last time, but they just sat, drank beer, ate Thai and watched a movie. Afterwards, House had dumped Wilson's usual pillow and blanket over the back of the couch and gone to bed. There was nothing abnormal in that routine, or in the way they carried it out. It was…well, it was typical, for them.

It was boring, Wilson thought. He hadn't realized it before, but now that he knew what other sorts of things they _could_ do on movie night, it rendered anything else not-worth-the-effort.

Wilson sat up and peered over the back of the couch at the darkened hallway. They had both enjoyed it the first time – there was no doubting that. The only concern was whether or not it would be a good idea, practically speaking, to try repeating the event. The acrobatics on the floor, even the whole mess that had come of the restraint episode - that could be written off as an experiment gone awry. A second run-through…still could be considered part of the experiment, but it increased the likelihood of a third time, which made a fourth time inevitable, and then…

…then it was something messy. House was his friend, even if there was a lot of grief and unappreciation involved in claiming that title. There were just lines that he shouldn't cross – lines that not even House would normally cross. And then there were the things they had said to each other, about how House didn't trust him, and he didn't think Wilson was capable of real feeling – an amusing irony under other circumstances. He wondered what House would do if Wilson could convince him that he _wasn't _just a "serial carer," as House had put it. Hm. He'd probably bolt. Then again, Wilson wasn't really sure that he could pull something like that off, because he feared that House may have been right…that he _was_ shallow.

"Shouldna had so much to drink," Wilson mumbled to himself as his bladder interrupted his brooding.

He pushed the blanket aside and stood, stretching his back until the vertebra cracked, and then shuffled down the hall to the bathroom. He didn't shut the door all the way because House tended to hear the click and wake up. It was like his superpower – hearing near-inaudible noises in his sleep while not even registering explosions, or screaming clinic patients, or the apocalypse.

Once Wilson finished and washed his hands, he shut off the light and padded back out into the hallway in his stocking feet. On an impulse, he paused to glance into House's bedroom. He knew he shouldn't do it, but he was still half-drunk and a bit horny, and House wouldn't know.

His friend was sprawled out on his stomach, covering the majority of the bed, his legs tangled in the sheets and the comforter bunched up into a ball with his arms around it, wearing his favorite plaid sleep pants and an undershirt. Wilson smiled at the sight and stepped closer. Before he could stop himself, he whispered, "Hey, House?"

House stirred and mumbled, and pressed his face into the comforter before settling again.

"Are you awake?"

Nothing.

Second and third thoughts aside, Wilson walked up to the foot of the bed and poked the ankle that hung over the side. "House."

More grumbles with a slight up-tone at the end, like a question.

"I can't sleep," Wilson replied.

House finally lifted his head and glared down the bed at him. "Why does this concern me?"

"Because…" Wilson swallowed and shifted on his feet, then gripped the back of his neck. "You know what, never mind." He escaped the room as quickly as possible. Waking House up was taboo enough, seeing as how he was such an insomniac to begin with. But waking him up in his own bed just because Wilson couldn't sleep? It was a miracle House didn't come flying out of the bedroom to hunt Wilson down and shake him unconscious for both their sakes. The fact that House stayed in his room, silent, made Wilson wonder if they really were okay, or if between the two of them, they had ruptured something vital.

He laid back down, wide awake, but a plan began to form in the back of his melanin-rich brain, helped along by the sudsy poison of five cans of beer. If House wouldn't make the next move, then Wilson would. And this time, he wouldn't fuck it up.

Figuratively speaking.

* * *

Another week passed before Wilson's plan came to fruition. It took that long to work out the entire script, and get it memorized. And he would never, _ever_ let House find out that he truly had written a script for this moment and then rehearsed it for himself in front of the bathroom mirror until he got it right.

He strode into the diagnostics conference room without looking at House's team where they sat hunched over piles of textbooks on obscure diseases. He was the incarnation of "man on a mission." Neither fellow nor beeper nor threat of mockery could deter him now.

Well…his beeper would, actually, and mockery might…

Wilson shook his head and schooled his features as he walked into House's office and drew an object out of his pocket – something that he had purchased just the day before as a gift for House. It wasn't wrapped – it wasn't in a box or packaging at all, as a matter of fact. Concealing it would defeat the purpose. He felt giddy.

"Hey, House. Got you something." He casually tossed the object on House's desk, the same way he might a bag of potato chips, and then sat in the guest chair, his every movement as practiced and normal as he could make it considering that he had just dropped a cock ring on top of an MRI film.

He looked up to find House blinking at it, and then House's brows climbed toward his hairline. "You know…if you keep dumping your kinky accessories on my desk, people are gonna get the wrong idea." He turned nonchalant blue eyes and a bored expression on Wilson.

What a front, Wilson thought; he couldn't stop himself smirking as he stood and moved to perch on the edge of House's desk, still a distance away. "What idea is that?"

House turned serious right on cue. "I thought we agreed that this was over."

"You said 'Mulligan,' House. Not 'checkmate.'" Wilson let his frown darken as he shifted on the desktop. "This won't be anything like last time."

"Since when is there a _this_ time?"

That was almost too easy, goading him into verbal position. Wilson slid closer, ignoring the rustle of disturbed papers, and plucked the cock ring from in front of House as if he hadn't just spoken. "I've been thinking about this for weeks. Imagining you wearing it." He turned the silicon toy over in his hands and pretended to study it, his face and tone pensive, sultry. It was a challenge not to glance over to see House's reaction, but that would ruin the effect. "Thought about how you would look with it on…how you'd squirm at the feel of it, how I'd – well." He chuckled and ran fond fingers over the little plastic nubs on the inside of the ring, then stood and sauntered around the desk to confront a wary but cloudy-eyed House.

When Wilson slid between the desk and House's chair, House scooted back a few inches. "People can see you, you know." His eyes darted toward the conference room, where his team sat mired in their puzzle.

"This is a triple ring," Wilson said without acknowledging House's anxiety. He leaned toward House and House leaned back, but Wilson didn't try to touch him. He just held the cock ring over House's lap and studied it from a few different angles, all the while remaining cool…detached… His nether regions were slightly less detached than the rest of him, but he ignored them. "It also wraps around the testicles to prevent them from drawing into the body during orgasm." Finally, he met House's gaze and found the cerulean eyes staring wide over slightly parted lips. This time, when he leaned closer, conspiring, House remained still. "I hear it's…absolutely…_incredible_."

"Um…" House swallowed and darted a few more glances at the conference room, but his attention was totally taken up by Wilson's slow, practiced seduction.

Wilson took note of the fine tension that had gripped House's body, betrayed by his rigid posture and the whitened knuckles that squeezed his chair arms. "You know, I have to tell you." The toe of Wilson's shoe appeared on the edge of the office chair, between House's slightly parted legs, and he watched House's eyes widen further as he shot worried glances at his oblivious fellows. "It's been all I could do not to picture it, House." The toes edged forward, Wilson's upper body angled closer to House's face, and House nervously licked his lips, his arms trembling under the strain of his grip on the chair. "In the shower…in bed at night…in my office while you're just a few feet away, sitting right here where I can see you from my couch…"

Wilson hissed and shut his eyes in restrained ecstasy. He could hear House breathing heavily just inches away, and he moved his French loafer further onto the chair, until it encountered resistance. Then he wiggled the tip of the shoe and drank in House's surprised/shocked/terrified grunt. Wilson didn't have to force his voice up a register – it went there all on its own, and he softened his tone so that House would have to strain to hear what he said. His shoe kept on bouncing as he spoke. "Do you have _any_ idea how glad I am that my office walls aren't made of glass?"

A very quiet, very high-pitched whine forced itself from House's throat. The sound guided Wilson to the side of his face, eyes still shut and squinched up in an expression of sweet, desperate yearning. He tipped his head so that he could breathe straight into House's ear as he spoke, and his words came out as little more than air at that point. "I want to _see_ that, House. I want to see you trapped in an agony of pleasure." The panting was no effort at that point; Wilson had pretty much worked himself feverish with no input at all from House. "I want to watch you cry for release that won't come, I want to _feel _you under me, writhing, begging, tortured with bliss so prolonged that you couldn't possibly remain conscious when you finally, _finally_ – _oh_god…" He sighed and forced his voice to return to something approaching normal. "_Don't you want to know what that feels like?_"

Wilson opened his eyes and watched House's throat bob as he tried to swallow around cottonmouth, his eyes fixed straight ahead while he shifted in his chair. It seemed that he simultaneously tried to back away from Wilson's shoe and rub harder against it, trapped between his hormones and the knowledge that he was currently sitting in a glass room. Wilson leaned back to look him in the eyes and House's glassy gaze slid to him as his breathing, heavy already from Wilson's teasing, sped up and lost its rhythm. House blinked, and Wilson nudged the tip of his shoe a little farther in, until House's balls rested on the polished loafer. He then proceeded to move his foot from side to side, back and forth, his eyes glued to House's, everything else perfectly still, save for the rise and fall of their chests. And if Wilson angled his toe just right…ah, yes. Perineum.

House started to squirm and fight not to gasp, his hips canted forward to take advantage of the stimulation offered by Wilson's foot. He still looked half-terrified but the lust on his face was impossible to miss. Wilson liked that. While maintaining eye contact for as long as he could, Wilson craned his neck around House's, as if he were about to start suckling House's throat. He didn't, though. He merely nosed the air all around House's jaw, bringing their skin so close that Wilson swore his eyelashes brushed across House's cheek. But he didn't touch. Just the same, when he drew back, House's body angled to follow him before he caught himself and froze again. Wilson smirked.

A glance confirmed that the fellows hadn't noticed anything odd going on in their boss's office; bookshelves and the wall blocked the majority of their view. Wilson moved in for the clincher. He reached for House's pocket and slid the silicon toy inside, his face so close that he could feel the heat of House's cheek, but he didn't touch any part of House aside from the edge of his pocket, and the prominent place where his shoe rested. "I'll be at your place by eight." Then he stopped the motion of his foot and made his voice cheery, as though he hadn't just brought House to within a few inches of coming in his pants. "And I'll bring pizza."

Without further ado, Wilson withdrew, taking his leave via the balcony door because there was really no way he could walk out into the hall with the obvious situation going on in his pants. He glanced back long enough to watch House absent-mindedly pick up the MRI films and set them in his lap, and then grinned. Checkmate.

* * *

Wilson showed up precisely at eight, as promised, along with an extra large pizza split in half since they liked different toppings. He assumed that House had beer, but if not, it would be no big loss. Wilson wasn't standing there because he wanted to get fuzzy and fall asleep on the couch in an alcoholic haze.

He used the spare key to open the door – the one he had pilfered from atop the moulding several weeks ago – and paused on the threshold. House was sitting on the couch watching the Cartoon Network on mute. What was it with that guy turning the sound off of everything he watched? "Hey."

House glanced over his shoulder and then proceeded to ignore Wilson in favor of the television.

Oooooookay. Wilson came the rest of the way in and shut the door, setting the pizza down first so that he could shed his winter attire and toe his shoes off. "Any reason you're not in the mood for a talkie?" Wilson asked, indicating the silent TV as he sat next to House.

There was no warning. One second, Wilson was considering whether he should start eating or not, and in the next, the armrest was digging in against his shoulder blades and House's face was inches from his own. Wilson's mouth moved like a fish out of water while House shifted to his knees – or to his left knee, anyway, with his right leg hanging off the couch – and loomed above Wilson, his eyes dark and unfathomable. "You realize…I _am_ going to get you back for that little stunt you pulled in my office."

Wilson's lungs emptied in a rush; he hadn't realized he was holding his breath until his relief released it from him, but the calm was short lived. House's expression was intense, a little cold, but it left something smoldering in Wilson's body. He tensed as House leaned over him but refrained from any actual contact aside from the hand that pressed down on Wilson's chest. Then House went into a parody of the treatment that Wilson had given him earlier that day, except that he…oh. Oh, god – House was smelling him. That was – that was…okay, he should _really_ be more disturbed by this than he was, it definitely shouldn't be making him hard, but…but…Wow. Okay.

House put so much focus into his careful exploration that Wilson couldn't help responding. It was so animalistic, so primal, and so in_cred_ibly… "H-house…"

House's lips curled like a wolf warning the lower pack member not to challenge him, and the blood fled from every part of Wilson's body to make sure that his cock didn't get left hanging. House gripped one of Wilson's wrists and raised it toward his mouth. Teeth touched on the skin, a light caress, and then House nosed the sleeve of Wilson's shirt and moved up to inhale the scent at his elbow. He moved back down a second later, nipped at the inside of Wilson's wrist, and then let go of the hand.

Wilson's arm flopped back to the couch cushion and House's face appeared next to his faster than he expected. Wilson cut off the whimper that tried to sneak out. Stubble kissed his cheek as House rubbed his chin across Wilson's temples, tilted his head to smell the hair the hung over Wilson's ear, and then – tongue – House's tongue was rimming the shell of his ear. Wilson shuddered and fought to keep his breathing even; he didn't want House to know just how much this was turning him on. It felt as though House were sampling him the way he might test a new food. His tongue completed a circuit of Wilson's ear and then he drew the lobe between his teeth and exhaled through his nose so that the rush of air hit Wilson _just_ right. A shiver ran through him and he heard House growl low in his throat as he continued his exploration.

Wilson didn't dare move; House prowled across his torso as if seriously considering whether to maul him or not. Near Wilson's navel, House lowered his head and pressed his nose between buttons, and then Wilson felt his tongue slip in the folds to taste the soft flesh of his abdomen. Wilson's breathing stuttered and his back arched ever-so-slightly; this almost-contact was killing him.

And then House was smelling his pants, parting Wilson's legs with soft brushes of his cheek against Wilson's inner thighs. He buried his head against Wilson's groin, nosed into the crease between his balls and his right leg, and breathed in…

"Ohhh-ho." Wilson considered the very real possibility that he would develop a fatal arrhythmia within the next thirty seconds. He struggled to keep his head from falling back so that he could watch House go at him like a stalking predator: silent, single-minded, painfully assured of his own power. He teased his tongue against the fly of Wilson's pants, tasting Wilson's crotch where his genitals had spent the day nestled, sweating a little bit, rubbing their scent off on the fabric. He made it as far as House's mouth cupped over the base of his penis, and then Wilson's head smacked back against the armrest. He grabbed at the back of the couch because he needed an anchor against the way House gently pulled on one of his balls with his teeth through the khakis. Then House nipped the tender head of his cock where it had thickened against his fly and Wilson's breath caught. And then…

And then…

Nothing. Wilson heard the television un-mute and looked up to see House settled comfortably on his own side of the couch, flipping channels. He was pretty sure he looked murderous. "You suck."

"You started it," House returned. He somehow managed to appear completely indifferent. In fact, if appearances were accurate, he wasn't even hard.

Wilson wondered if he could use sexual frustration as the basis for an insanity defense. "Okay, so now that we've both fucked _with _each other, can we get to the actual fucking?"

House looked away from a cooking show and raised an eyebrow, his mouth crooked in a half smile. "That has to be the cheesiest line I've ever heard. Did you write that one down too?"

"What?" Wilson's eyes narrowed.

"It was a nice script. Personally, I would have left out that whole bit where you listed all the places you think about me. That's just creepy. It's like you're obsessed or something."

He went back to watching the cooking show and Wilson imagined that his stare could punch holes in the side of House's head. "House, did you – "

"You should've burned it. Anything you throw out with the trash is fair game."

"Right. Silly me. Forgot I had a stalker." Wilson sat up and adjusted himself on the couch, which wasn't easy considering the state House had left him in. A few seconds later, House shifted too. Aha! So he _wasn't_ completely unmoved by the display he'd put on. Wilson only became aware of his own wicked grin when House glanced over and then did a double take.

Wilson was pretty sure that they broke at least one lamp on the way to the bedroom, but he was too intent on dragging House down the hallway to care. They half-fought, half-mauled each other the whole way, until Wilson finally threw House down on the bed and pounced to straddle him. A moment of apprehension gripped him when he remembered the last time they had been in this position, but it couldn't compete with the lust. Wilson attacked House's pockets before he did anything else and, sure enough, the cock ring was right where Wilson had left it. He set it aside on the nightstand for later use, and then captured House's mouth in a bruising kiss.

House jumped under his weight. "Mm-_mm!_ Leg!"

"Shit." Wilson slid higher on House's hips and went for his mouth again. He missed because House turned his face away to catch his breath after Wilson's inadvertent blunder, but Wilson could make due with his neck. He mumbled, "Sorry," against House's adam's apple, and then tongued a jagged line up his trachea until House consented to let him have access to his lips again. He pushed his tongue down into House's mouth and ran it along the backs of his teeth; his jaw was already starting to hurt from the constant, pressured motion, but it was a sweet ache. Those little non-specific sounds that Wilson remembered from the couch were stuck in House's throat; they snuck out at intervals, but nowhere near as frequently as Wilson would have liked. He mashed their faces together harder and ground down against House's pelvis in the hopes of prodding more of them out. What he got instead was an answering rise of House's hips, and a long, slow exhale.

Wilson started a rhythm against his best friend and House's hands soon appeared at Wilson's waist, fingers splayed over the soft flesh that he had acquired over years of leisure and less-than-perfect eating habits. He let House set the tempo, enjoyed the feel of long-fingered hands gripping him, moving his lower body for him and pulling him more firmly down into each thrust. House's head fell back as he worked himself against Wilson, and Wilson leaned to suckle behind his ear. He rucked up House's shirt and kneaded along his chest, tweaking his nipples until House gasped and jerked beneath him.

As soon as his efforts produced a short but pronounced whimper, Wilson left off pinching at the nubs and slid his palms up House's flanks. He raked his fingernails down House's arms, squeezed his thighs tighter around House's waist and moved his mouth over to House's jugular. He hooked his hands over House's shoulders and pressed his thumbs along House's collar bone, then up toward the hollow of his throat. House's next upward thrust was more solid, more forceful, and Wilson swept his thumbs up in an arc again, from his collar to just under his chin, until the pads of his fingers met three-day-old stubble. House arched his neck to compliment the gesture and grunted, then moaned deep and long.

Their rhythm fell off for a moment as Wilson's movements turned more urgent and fought against the hands holding him back to a leisurely ride. He took time enough to tear House's shirt all the way off, and then he bent double to graze his teeth over House's chest and abdomen while keeping their groins flush. He was nearing the limit of what he could stand with his clothes still on, but he could feel that House was only half hard as he shoved up against him, listing to the right since he gained more leverage with his left leg than his damaged one. No doubt, he had taken a few extra vicodin that afternoon, maybe because his leg hurt or maybe because people had just irritated him more than usual. In any case, Wilson's present to him would perhaps serve a double purpose now; if he _had_ downed more pills than he should have, then the cock ring would help keep him in the game.

Wilson left off his exploration of House's chest and lifted off so that he could disrobe. House whined at the loss, but his avid gaze pierced Wilson as he stripped beside the bed. Of course, House was no help with his own attire; he hadn't even removed his sneakers. Wilson pressed the tip of his tongue into the inside of his cheek as he regarded his best friend, painfully aware of his own nakedness. His eyes drifted to the silicon toy on the bedside table and he grinned in anticipation. When he looked back toward the bed, something in his chest swelled to see House's face lose ninety percent of the mask that usually obscured it. There was something almost fond in his sapphire eyes as he smiled back, some warmth that Wilson had not seen there in nearly a decade. He was…he was happy. Right now, in this room with Wilson, he was happy.

"I want to have an off switch installed in your brain," House murmured.

_God_, that tone was _coy_. House was trying to be seductive, and it did things to Wilson that he hadn't expected. Things like stealing his breath without touching him and setting his heart to beat faster, and wiping the grin from his face. He peered at House, pensive and _wanting_, but intrigued.

Wilson's response was not verbal. He climbed back onto the bed and untied House's shoelaces without breaking eye contact. Gray-brown eyebrows lowered over blue irises as House studied Wilson in return. The shoes came off – Wilson tossed them off the bed without looking – and then he moved up his friend's body, spreading House's legs apart so that he could kneel between them and reach for the fly of his jeans. "Do you have any sort of lubricant in here?"

"Um." House glanced around but he was sort of absorbed in flicking glances at Wilson's hands where they rested casually over his groin. "I have that stuff you left here last time. The stuff from the hospital. It's in the drawer." He gestured over his shoulder; said drawer was conveniently located in the same nightstand where Wilson had set the cock ring.

"Good." Wilson flew into motion before House could say or do anything else. House's jeans were halfway off before the diagnostician thought to move, and Wilson had his hands shoved up the legs of House's boxers.

"_Whha – _geez, you're insistent," House gasped, falling back so that he could cant his hips against Wilson's hands. "Not that I'm complain – plaining. Nn – _nnn – _not at all. Ahh."

Wilson laughed and massaged all about House's crotch, gently rolling his balls and alternately squeezing and stroking his rapidly thickening cock. House's breath hitched on every inhale and he grasped at the sheets, positioning his arms to take more of his weight as he helped Wilson work him up to a respectable hardness by shoving up against the hands playing around with his genitals.

As soon as Wilson deemed him ready enough, he peeled House's boxers down and worked them, and his jeans, all the way off. He left House's socks on because he knew that House would find it funny, and then reached for the cock ring. "By the time I'm finished with you, even your neighbors are gonna be craving release."

House's voice threaded his words out on an abundance of air. "Walls are soundproofed. Piano concertos at three a.m. tend to piss people off."

"Insulation won't save you, House." Wilson slid the main ring down over House's cock and settled it at the base; it was a snug fit, as it should be. The other rings wrapped his testicles close, and Wilson took a moment to stare. "How's that feel?"

"A little weird," House admitted. "But not bad."

Wilson nodded and ran his finger up the underside of House's cock, then thumbed the sweet spot at the head. "How's _that_ feel?"

"Shw_hha_a." House's mouth fell open and his eyes rolled back before the lids drifted shut over them. Wilson used his other hand to press House's perineum and thumb the skin between it and his anus. "'s'good. _ng_'ahhhh." He gasped and then grunted. "Good. You know I'm on blood thinners still, right?"

Wilson's hands stopped and he gave House a perplexed look.

"Blood thinners," House repeated as if Wilson were an idiot, which he might have been at that moment. "From that clot thingie I had that one time." He lifted his head and treated Wilson to one of his classic _duh_ expressions, which was slightly marred by his blown pupils and uneven breathing. "You're technically not supposed to use one of these if you take them."

"Oh. Yeah, right." Wilson looked down to regard the tantalizing sight of House's restrained genitals. He had to bite his lip for a second. "Well, I _am_ a doctor. I know what to do if your penis explodes."

House blinked a few times at the double entendre, and then smirked. "Heh. Nice. Your loss, if it does."

"Well, I do have a vested interest in it."

"Some might call that a _conflict_."

"_Some_ might." Wilson tightened his grip on House's penis just to wipe the smile off of his face. "But since I have such an _interest_ in it…" He stroked upwards as slowly as he possibly could, and House's eyes drifted shut again, his body angled to follow the motion of Wilson's fist. "…rest assured I'll keep it healthy."

"There you go with your stoop – " House's breath caught and his hips twitched once as Wilson reached his cockhead and rubbed his thumb into the slit. " – stupid lines again. Oh." His head lolled back and he collapsed off of his elbows, breathing heavily.

Wilson let go and stretched himself out on top of House, his legs on either side of House's good one, his left leg rubbing over House's crotch. House hissed and his chest stuttered – Wilson could the feel the vibration beneath him. He moved his leg up and down the underside of House's cock as their mouths met. His motions sped up as their pulses quickened, and Wilson felt House's hands move down to cup his ass. House seemed to lose track of what he was doing after that and Wilson plundered his mouth as his exhalations grew more and more erratic. Soon, House was gasping in great gulps of air and just holding them for ten or fifteen seconds at a time, his body quivering until he exhaled and drew another breath to hold. His jaw went lax and Wilson encountered only the barest reciprocity as he worked his tongue around House's mouth, pausing to suck on his bottom lip every few seconds and leave several quick pecks in the corners of his mouth and on his chin.

Shortly thereafter, House began bucking up against his leg, his eyes shut tight with his head thrown back. Wilson shifted his attentions to House's neck and bit at the juncture of his shoulder. House heaved his pelvis upwards much harder at that, and Wilson moved his mouth a few inches over before biting again. He could tell that House had bitten his lip in a vain effort to remain quiet because his groan sounded like an elongated 'V.' This time, Wilson didn't relinquish his hold and House made some sort of noise that fell between a yelp and a helpless moan as he fought to both pull away from and arch into the teeth that had latched onto his shoulder. Wilson pushed him back down onto the bed, but then he had to tighten his legs around House's good thigh to keep from falling over as House's lower half tilted sharply upwards to compensate. House's hands clenched around Wilson's buttocks and he pulled Wilson a few inches higher on his body, which allowed him to thrust at a more urgent tempo.

Wilson scrambled to keep up with House's motions. Each time House inhaled, his jaw clenched and he arched up, sometimes with a whimper, his head pressed back into the pillows as if he were about to come. Then he'd exhale and settle back only to go rigid again. It took Wilson some time to realize that he kept approaching the brink and then falling back, probably thanks to the ring cinched around the base of his cock. The thought of that – of how it must feel – sent Wilson into a frenzy.

Wilson finally released House's shoulder and moved back to his mouth, shoving his tongue halfway down House's throat as his own body responded to House's desperation. Wilson was hard and leaking against House's leg, indulging himself in frantic rutting and fevered kisses, his hands running down House's flanks. An idea struck him then. Wilson moved both his legs back between House's and then reached over him to fumble in the nightstand drawer for the lube that House had said was in there. Once his fingers closed on the tube, he rose up over House, keeping his mouth moving against the sensitive skin behind House's ear but removing the rest of his body from against House's. He ignored the whine that came from below him and tried valiantly not to succumb to the hands that pressed and pulled at his hips and ass, attempting to force him back down.

Pillows. He needed pillows _now_, before he lost the ability to resist House's insistent hands roving all over his body. He dropped the lube near their waist levels, got up on his hands and knees, and stretched to pull two of House's pillows toward himself. His will and the majority of his conscious brain short-circuited when one of House's hands wrapped around his cock and pulled, long fingers twisting in an insanely impossible and erotic manner as they slid down his length and then back up. A second hand appeared on Wilson's ass, running up the cleft of his buttocks and all he saw were the colors bursting across the insides of his eyelids as he clenched them shut. His head fell to hang between his shoulder blades and he couldn't stop himself from thrusting into House's hand when it tightened and picked up the pace. The fingers on his ass kept roaming between his butt cheeks, moving to press and massage his perineum and then sweeping up to circle his anus.

Wilson had never allowed anyone to stimulate him like this before but he didn't even consider protesting when House slipped a finger _inside_ him and rubbed all along the muscles there. He gasped and his eyes flew open but the obvious lust and excitement on House's face stopped him from telling House to stop. Besides, it felt okay. A little strange, like he needed to go to the bathroom, but the fire tingling along all of his other nerves drowned out the smidge of discomfort. House left off stroking his cock to wrap his arm around the back of Wilson's neck, and Wilson let him drag him into a hot, openmouthed kiss. As soon as House was sure that Wilson wasn't about to pull back, his hand returned to Wilson's cock and they worked their lips together with increasing speed. It was a lot of tongue and a lot of saliva with very little real thought behind what they did with either, but Wilson couldn't care at the moment because House's hand was moving up and down his length at a punishing speed and the finger inside of him was penetrating deeper, and –

"Oh – holy – _mmm_." Wilson broke the kiss and licked his lips, lowering his brows as he tilted his head up. He imagined that he looked like he was concentrating on something that confused the hell out of him, but that was House's finger crooked against his prostate, and ohmygod, ohmy_god_ that was _good_. His mouth returned to House's but his lips went slack in response to the attentions of his best friend. House kept on kissing him, though, pressing his lips all over Wilson's face and neck as if he couldn't get enough fast enough to satisfy either of them.

House nudged the node inside Wilson again, and thumbed his slit at the same time, and Wilson shoved into his hand, but his hips were all discombulated; they wanted to tilt forwards and backwards at the same time. Wilson shuddered, caught between fingers until his body decided the matter for him. He reared back against House's finger and the impact with his prostate left him crying out and shaking and thrusting forward as if his life depended on it just so that he could shove back again, and again, and –

Wilson collapsed on top of House, his arms strained beyond the ability to support his weight any longer. House kept finger fucking him, his tongue laving whatever parts of Wilson's throat were accessible to him at this angle, and Wilson struggled to lift his hips and increase the force with which House's finger struck his prostate. He could barely manage it; his dick seemed to have a mind of its own, and it was too busy pumping into House's hand, which still surrounded him and was now trapped between their bodies. Wilson felt as if his cock were throbbing with every agonized beat of his racing heart, and he was moaning before he knew it, expelling wordless noises with each breath, his body curved over House's, grasping at his sweat-slickened body for god-knew-what, trying desperately to hang on even though he knew he couldn't possibly last another minute, and then there it was.

White lightning exploded throughout Wilson's body. He clenched all over, unable to protest the scream of overstressed limbs, his jaw clenched, teeth bared, eyes shut so tight that half his face hurt. He was aware of his hands digging into House's shoulders and his face curling into House's neck as the muscles of his abdomen clenched and flexed at the same time, brutal and delicious and overwhelming, and then he was coming, thrusting as fast as he could, curling forward and shoving himself down, his teeth sunk into House's shoulder to muffle his sobs as came _so_ hard he could barely stand it, his ass tightening on House's finger to hold it right up against his prostate as he bucked against House's body, wild and ecstatic and completely out of control.

Wilson edged off the plateau in stages, close to blacking out. The first thing he noticed was that he was on his back all of a sudden, and he could hear House struggling to pull himself to his knees. Next, he sensed House poised over him and felt the soft brush of House's breath on his face. Then something changed and he heard his friend bite back a whimper as the breath retreated from Wilson's face.

Wilson's vision gradually cleared and brightened, and he looked down past his stomach to find House on his hands and knees between Wilson's legs, his face contorted into something that Wilson couldn't readily identify. His cock was engorged and purple, and obviously straining towards release, but House himself appeared frozen. As Wilson watched, he raised a hand to touch himself, just to feather his fingertips along the underside of his length, but he stopped halfway up and made a fist away from his body, his chin tucked down against his chest as he fought for breath and shook his head several times as if to clear it.

Wilson stared, spellbound. House was so close, so overwhelmed with need that he couldn't think straight, not even to gratify himself. He just sat there on his haunches, his breath ragged and his head lowered, trapped in the most exquisite sort of anguish.

"House?" Wilson had to call his name twice more before House lifted his gaze. The blue eyes were clouded and bloodshot and confused, and he looked to Wilson in desperate hope of relief. Wilson labored up onto his elbows and waved House forward. "C'mere."

House merely blinked at him and panted and shook his head once more, so Wilson sat all the way up and took House's arms, pulled him forward. Wilson draped House's limbs over his own body and encouraged him to settle down which, for some reason, he had trouble doing. He kept blinking furiously, and then his lips would curl and he'd shake for a second, his breath beyond uneven. It took Wilson tugging on his hips to finally get him to relinquish his weight, and as soon as he fell onto Wilson's body he curled over it, clawing at Wilson's biceps for something – maybe for leverage, Wilson didn't know. And then House's pelvis angled sharply in and it felt like he was trying to stab Wilson's perineum with the tip of his penis. He froze there, wrapped around Wilson's body like a video on pause. Wilson grunted in surprise at the sensation of House's cock sitting pressed up hard against him, but he couldn't blame House for being rough; he was too far gone to know what he was doing.

"It's okay. Go on, House." Wilson petted his best friend's back and took note of the way his muscles quivered and jerked even though House was trying not to move. A few seconds passed before Wilson realized that House was crying against his shoulder, in agony, and he immediately twisted to reach for the quick release on the cock ring, thinking that it had to be causing House pain.

"No!" House jerked away, but gasped at the slightest movement and buried his face in the crook of Wilson's neck. His voice was muffled as he added, "Leave it. P…Please, just…just…"

"Okay," Wilson assured him, finally understanding. House wasn't in too much pain – he was in too much _pleasure_. "I won't touch it." He returned his hands to the small of House's back and rubbed circles there, kneading the flesh in the hopes of bringing him back enough that he could continue. "God, House…this is so…" He couldn't think of a suitable adjective to describe the experience of holding his best friend while said best friend tried to battle through the most perilous brand of bliss. "Do you need me to do anything?"

A sob escaped the back of House's throat and he tensed even further, if such a thing were possible. Then he began moving against Wilson in fits and starts, unable to go far before his body signaled the beginning of orgasm and the cock ring denied it to him. Wilson tried to help him along by thrusting his soft cock against House's unbelievably hard one, and by gripping his hips to keep him moving each time he stopped. This special kind of torture stirred parts of Wilson's anatomy that should have been down for the count, and he groaned in sympathy each time House's body froze or convulsed or otherwise did something out of the ordinary to make House shudder and cry and beg Wilson to help him.

Finally, House managed to get a grip on himself and his thrusts settled into a steady rhythm, much to Wilson's relief. Whether it was pleasant for House or not, the sounds he had been making and the tone of his voice had been too reminiscent of pain for Wilson's comfort. House shoved his cock against Wilson's, which was already back at half mast, but after a minute he faltered again.

Wilson expected him to revert to that immobile state somewhere between agony and bliss, but he didn't. Instead, House's arms snaked under Wilson's, made their way behind his back, and then scooped up to hook over his shoulders from behind. His hips paused long enough for him to shimmy forward on Wilson's body, resituating his engorged length between them on Wilson's stomach for better friction. They stayed that way for a moment with the sweat building up between them, and then House lifted his head enough to tell Wilson to spread his legs farther apart.

At first, Wilson was afraid that he was about to get his first taste of bottoming, but he opened his legs anyway, trusting that House at least _sort of _knew what he was doing. And the sound of his best friend's voice, slurred with arousal, was satisfying enough that Wilson wanted to hear it more, at any cost. He refused to admit that he was relieved when House didn't attempt to enter him; that thought had apparently never even crossed House's mind. Instead, House intertwined their legs so that Wilson was lying frog-legged with House's thighs outside Wilson's, their legs overlapping, and the tops of House's feet resting on top of Wilson's ankles, effectively trapping him there in position against the mattress. It gave House much more leverage to thrust, though, as he could now use Wilson's own body to brace himself. Instead of relying on his legs and abdominal muscles, House could also pull himself up along Wilson with his arms. The thought of being so thoroughly used in this way turned Wilson on like little else. His entire body could be employed in making House – his dry-witted, cranky, distant best friend – come completely unhinged. It was exhilarating.

Wilson crossed his arms over House's back and laved kisses all along House's exposed neck and shoulder, alternating between lips and teeth, gentle nips and love bites. He left a few marks low enough to be covered even by a t-shirt, and moved as best as he could to compliment House's motions against him.

The metronomic movement of House's hips abruptly ceased, but he continued to pull himself back and forth along Wilson's body, his fingers gripped tight enough over Wilson's shoulder that Wilson's arms were starting to go numb. House's breaths turned to grunts of exertion and then to something that Wilson could only describe as the breathless yips that dogs make when they dream. He put his hands on House's shoulders and asked, "Are you okay? Can I do something?"

House gasped against him and tensed, his abdominal muscles curling. "It's not enough."

He practically wailed this and Wilson tightened his grip in silent support. "Let me take it off, House. You can't handle this."

"No! I told you – _aangh_ – to leave it. Just…_nnnn!_…just do something…please just…" He hiccupped, violently, and then moaned, but didn't stop heaving himself back and forth. "I need – nn_nnng…_ Wilson – please." His breaths came so quickly that Wilson was certain he would hyperventilate. "Fuck…Wilson, I can't…anymore, I can't…" His voice disintegrated and he was left panting and groaning and unable to stop, unable to reach completion, desperate and sweaty and at Wilson's mercy.

Wilson unwound their legs and pushed House to sit up on his knees. It was harder to get him upright than Wilson had thought it would be; House clung to him as if by squeezing Wilson's body hard enough, he could somehow bring himself close enough to hurl over the edge. Once they were both upright, kneeling on the mattress facing each other, Wilson took House's cock in his left hand, threading his right arm around House's waist and pulling him close. House fought to control the rhythm, but not out of some desire to be in the dominant position; he simply couldn't help himself. His body knew what it wanted but couldn't quite get there, and the movements were inborn. Wilson drew him against him and held his body as still as he could while he set a brutal pace with his fist.

House's arms tightened around him to the point that Wilson had trouble breathing, but he allowed House to press the air out of him because it was insanely erotic and he didn't care right then if House broke Wilson's ribs, just so long as he finally came. House somehow curled his body back around Wilson's and Wilson pumped his cock at a much quicker pace than any man could have thrust at. The unrestrained moans coming from House's mouth quickened Wilson's blood. Tumescent period be damned; he was hard again and leaking, and House _still _hadn't come. Wilson could see how House's balls tightened but remained trapped by the bindings of the cock ring, and _god_, the way House sounded – breathless moans that he stifled against Wilson's neck, the sobs that crept out in between, the hitches in his breathing and the way he kept holding his breath, anticipating release that kept eluding him, kept him poised on the brink, made him more and more frantic for it as he pled with Wilson to just make him come, and that only whenever he could manage to form words at all…

Wilson was just about to insist that the cock ring come off when House's entire body gave a great spasm, and then he threw his head back so hard that Wilson got pulled over on top of him as he fell backward and thrashed. "Nnn_nnggg-hhh_!" House shoved his hands down between their bodies, and Wilson couldn't figure out what House was doing until he tried to contort his arm to a position convenient enough to finger himself from.

"Stop it!" Wilson snapped, smacking House's hands away. "I'll do it." He glanced over his shoulder for the lube that he had set on the bed earlier, but it had gotten lost in the sheets. In lieu of that, Wilson slicked his finger up with the Cowper's fluid leaking all down House's cock. House had already angled himself up, impatient for Wilson to get on with it, so Wilson just felt around a bit and then plunged his finger past the tight ring of muscles at House's opening.

"_AAa-hmm_…" House writhed and shoved against Wilson's finger hard enough to risk breaking it at this angle.

In response, Wilson added a second and a third digit at once, and crooked them so that House could move however he wanted without risk of putting Wilson's hand in a splint. He made certain to keep the pad of at least one finger pressed against House's prostate as he stretched him open.

"_Oh…mm-my god…_ Wilson, I have to…_nngh!_" He bent himself so far backwards that no part of him touched the mattress from his shoulders to his heels, save for the tip of his right hip. "…come…please…"

Wilson figured that this _had _to be it, but no. The sheets twisted in House's hands as he yanked on them, unable to stop moving as his body sought anything that would release him from this expectant agony. Wilson watched slack-jawed as House left off gripping the sheets in favor of pushing his own legs farther open, as if he couldn't spread them wide enough, as if that might help. "Oh, hell," Wilson muttered. There was no way he could resist that sight.

Wilson removed his fingers and his eyes widened as House grabbed his wrist and shoved his hand back down, so tense that the tendons in his neck stood out in stark relief. "Don't stop…_angh – _Wilson, don't stop…don't…"

The plea trailed off into a whine of pure wanton desire and Wilson shivered as he moved forward. He got House's left leg hooked over his shoulder, and then he leaned forward to press House's leg in toward his body. "This okay?"

House's response was to grab Wilson by the ears and drag him down to his mouth, and a hot tongue plunged in to assault Wilson's gums. That was all the consent he needed. Wilson guided the tip of his penis to House's opening and pressed forward just enough to breach the first ring of muscles, fully expecting that he would need to wait and go slowly, as he had the first time they'd done this.

Yeah…no such need. House slipped his leg off of Wilson's shoulder, wrapped it around his waist instead, and hauled him forward hard enough that Wilson jarred his balls from the force of smacking all the way into his best friend. "D-d-_damn_!" Wilson gasped, bent over House's torso and fighting to breath through the sensation of being encased in hot, slick, rippling flesh. It was nothing like being inside of a woman – it was _so _much more fulfilling than that, and so much harder to control himself through.

House answered his expletive with a high-pitched, almost feminine sound that Wilson would have mocked him for under any other circumstances. As it was, it made Wilson want to pound into him without any further regard, and since House's leg tightened around his waist as if he agreed with that idea, Wilson went with it.

"_Ahh'n_, god!" House's hands tugged on Wilson's neck until they were once again joined at the lips, Wilson's kisses sloppy on account of his forceful thrusts. He angled his hips up a bit and House's head dropped back, his pelvis angled to take better advantage of Wilson's cock slamming into him. "Wha…_nnn_!"

Wilson thought that might have been an attempt to shout his name, but he couldn't be sure. House squirmed, his heel digging into Wilson's back, and then everything seemed to explode in Wilson's field of vision. He hadn't even realized he was so close, and then wave after wave of a second orgasm crashed over him with blinding fury. His vocal chords seized and he choked on his own tongue as his body went rigid with bliss, then his hips snapped back and forth like pistons and he emptied himself harder than he thought possible, considering that he'd just come not twenty minutes earlier.

He had barely come down from the high when he heard House babbling beneath him, his eyes rolled up in his head, his chest heaving with the exertion of trying to continue shoving himself against Wilson's softening cock. He had his hand wrapped around his own penis but he must have been too uncoordinated at the moment to stroke himself. Wilson pried his fingers off and took over without disengaging from House's ass. He was just firm enough that the tip of his cock provided continued stimulation to House's prostate, and the resultant howl made Wilson determined to end this now – he couldn't stand to see House punished with this any longer. His fist flew over House's length and he stared down at his friend, intent on making him come.

"Come on, House. Come on." He cooed a bunch of nonsense at his helpless best friend that House, hopefully, would not recall afterwards, and then House began to quake beneath him. Wilson looked down as House's testicles tightened and strained to retract, only to become trapped away from his body by bands of silicon. His hands gripped Wilson's arms hard enough to leave bruises and his face reddened from the strain. His limbs seemed to elongate as he stretched, pulling the skin of his abdomen taut over the muscles there, and then _finally_, Wilson felt the hot ejaculate running down his fingers as he continued to stroke as fast as his arm could move. House couldn't draw enough breath to do anything more than wheeze as his orgasm overtook him, and he practically threw himself into Wilson's hand, mindlessly seeking more friction to draw it out. It seemed an impossible length of time before House gave one last shuddering moan, his cock still hard in between Wilson's fingers, and then he flopped back, boneless and utterly spent.

Wilson immediately disengaged, pulling out carefully to save House the discomfort of over-stimulation and hissing since he really couldn't avoid it himself. Then he thumbed the release and took the cock ring off before doing anything else. The last thing he wanted was for House to end up with penile gangrene, and not just because House would never forgive him for it. Wilson wanted his friend's cock in perfect working order so that they could do this again. Very soon. Within the next five minutes, if Wilson had his way.

He threw the ring aside and scrambled up to lay alongside his wrecked best friend, planting urgent but gentle kisses all over his neck and shoulders, patiently waiting for him to recover so that they could go another round. Wilson, _again_, could feel that he was not quite flaccid, and he wondered how a man his age could possible recover so quickly. It took him a minute to become disturbed by House's stillness, broken only by the slight sloughing of his quickened breaths.

Wilson propped himself up to get a better look at House's face, and then both his eyebrows shot upwards. "Huh." House wasn't just languishing in the comatose state that follows a really good orgasm. He had literally passed out.

Wilson checked his vitals because he was a doctor, and that was just what he did. Once he'd satisfied himself that House's heart rate was steadily decreasing from nearly one-seventy, and that nothing was seriously wrong with him, Wilson sat up and glanced down at his own half-interested length. Then he levered himself off of the bed and went in search of a cold compress and a glass of water so that he could get House conscious as soon as possible. After all of that, there was no_ way_ Wilson was letting him get off that easy.

* * *

Wilson ended up falling asleep disappointed. The second House stuttered awake, he sat halfway up and grabbed his thigh, and then rolled over to endure a pretty bad spasm. That had been more than enough to kill Wilson's third hard-on of the night. Once House settled, his breathing shallow but steady, Wilson spooned up along his back and then passed out from sheer exhaustion. They didn't exchanged a single word in that entire time.

Several hours later, Wilson woke up in a cold, unfamiliar bed and started up onto his elbows. He recognized the walls of House's bedroom as soon as the fuzz cleared from his brain, and then he remembered how he had come to be there. A House-worthy smirk plastered itself across his face as he shuffled to the edge of the bed. Something poked into his side on the way there and he felt around until the sheets yielded up the tube of hospital-brand lubricant. "So that's where you disappeared to." Wilson tossed it back into the dark folds of the bedspread and swung his legs to the floor. It was about that moment that he realized he was _alone_ in House's bed.

Wilson padded down the hallway on silent feet, as familiar with the squeaks in House's floorboards as House himself was. The lights were all off but enough of a glow seeped in through the front windows for Wilson to make out the shape of his best friend on the couch. He frowned and stepped around to the coffee table for a better look. Any other person would have assumed that House moved to the couch out of consideration for Wilson, who might have been kept awake by the constant shift and unrest as House tried to keep his leg comfortable during the night. Wilson knew better; House would have just pulled the cripple card and kicked Wilson out of the room. The fact that he hadn't bothered Wilson on a level he couldn't quite define.

Wilson's next thought was that House's insomnia had struck and he had come out here to placate it with mindless muted television, but the remote was nowhere within House's reach. It seemed like House had left the bedroom just to get away from Wilson. Even more disconcerting was the fact that he had fished Wilson's usual couch-pillow and blanket from the closet, and had curled up around them facing the back of the couch – sleeping with the comfort of Wilson's presence, but not with _Wilson_. How a man over six feet tall could squish himself up onto two-and-a-half couch cushions, Wilson would never know. It was endearing and disturbing at the same time.

A glint of amber caught Wilson's eye and he folded back the edge of the blanket to reveal a pill bottle grasped in House's hand. Wilson wiggled it free and glanced at the date, then held the bottle up to count the pills. There were four left, and yet the scrip was only three days old. Wilson sighed and twisted to set it on the coffee table, which was when he noticed the bottle of Maker's Mark. It was empty, and no glass sat beside it; House had drank it straight from the bottle, which was strange even for him. Even when he'd tried to overdose on oxy, he had used a glass.

Wilson turned back and pressed his fingers against House's neck. The pulse was strong and steady, so he hadn't OD'd again; that was a comfort. He was completely out, though, thanks to his vicodin-bourbon cocktail. That had probably been his intention.

Once satisfied that his life was not in any danger, Wilson turned his hand over and brushed the backs of his knuckles along House's cheek. "What's going on with you, buddy?" House nuzzled his hand without waking, and then sighed. Wilson wanted to smile at that, but he couldn't.

He considered trying to rouse House, if only because his leg would kill him if he stayed wrapped in on himself like that all night. He didn't, though. Part of him knew that House wouldn't return to bed if Wilson asked, and he didn't want to be tempted to press him for an explanation, not right now. Not until he had taken the time to figure this out.

Wilson tiptoed through the apartment gathering his clothes and shoes, his briefcase, and lastly his jacket. He put the now-cold pizza in the refrigerator so that House would have something to eat in the morning, and then hurried to the door. He leaned against the doorframe to slip his loafers on, and then pulled gloves and a scarf from his coat pockets. House would no doubt misinterpret his leaving in the middle of the night, but considering that Wilson's very presence had driven him to the couch…

It didn't matter right then; Wilson would come up with an excuse before he saw House next. Wilson finished bundling up and quietly opened the door, glancing back one last time to make sure that everything was in order. As a last thought, he set his briefcase down, shuffled over to the piano, and retrieved House's cane from where it rested on top of the polished lid. He left it leaning against the coffee table instead, within easy reach of House's long arms; he would definitely need it come morning.

The door shut with a soft click and Wilson crept out of the building. He felt like he was sneaking away from an illicit affair to go home to one of his wives, or maybe more like he was sneaking away from the wife in search of another bed. He couldn't really tell the difference. Half of him feared, as he turned his ignition key, that House would hear the engine turn over and hobble to the window to look at Wilson with some sort of hurt in his eyes. He cast a reflexive glance up at the darkened panes of House's home, hoping that he _would_ see a hunched profile silhouetted there. He did not.

Wilson sighed and buckled his seat belt, swallowed around a lump of something akin to disappointment, and pulled away. He couldn't stop his thoughts from wandering to the myriad of reasons why House might prefer to sleep on the couch. None of them were positive. Wilson forced them from his mind and drove home in silent confusion.

* * *


	5. Reparation

Wilson showed up to work at 7:30am, which was early even for him. He hadn't been able to sleep after he got back to his own apartment; all he could think about was the picture of his best friend looking lonesome on the couch, cuddling blankets that smelled like him. He made his way up to the fourth floor, and as soon as he stepped out of the elevator, a glow caught his eye. The sky outside was still dark but there was a lamp on in House's office. It was unlikely that the diagnostician was already in, but Wilson strode down the hall to check anyway.

The diagnostics office was empty, but the sound of the coffee machine filtered out from the attached conference room. Wilson wandered to the other door and peered in to find House propped against the sink, absently twirling his cane in one hand while he held his red mug directly under the maker with his other, waiting for the cup to fill. Wilson absorbed this picture before announcing his presence. House looked no worse than usual, but Wilson was accustomed to reading the many variances in his friend's appearance. A wrinkled t-shirt meant he had picked something up off the floor to wear again. He hadn't bothered tying his shoelaces, which in Wilson's experience meant that the act of getting his sneakers on at all had been an effort. His hair stuck up all over the place, which pointed to either not showering or to not combing it; Wilson suspected the latter since hot water soothed House's leg, no matter how bad it felt when he woke up. All things considered, it was not a good day. Wilson hoped that this was caused by his sleeping on the couch, and not by the physical exertions that they had engaged in before that.

House shifted his weight and switched his mug out for the coffee pot, then balanced his coffee carefully away from his body as he limped over to the table with the cream on it. He didn't notice Wilson standing in the doorway, so Wilson knocked on the glass and made a proper entrance. "Morning, House."

"Wilson." Maybe he _had_ noticed Wilson standing there; he didn't seem surprised to hear his voice. He also didn't seem the least bit pleased. "I made coffee."

That was all the invitation Wilson would get, so he set his briefcase on the conference room table and walked past House to pour himself a cup. "You're in early."

"So are you."

Apparently, this was a morning for terse answers – another indication that House was not feeling his best, or even his baseline. Wilson turned with his fresh cup of coffee to find House preoccupied by the label on the powdered creamer. He decided to get right to the point. "Why did you sleep on the couch? If I was bothering you, you could have told me to move."

House shrugged. "It was easier."

"Easier than what?" Wilson took a step nearer and pried the creamer from his hand. "You popped a bunch of pills and then drank yourself into a stupor. Why?"

"Habit?" House leaned both hands on the table to take the weight off his leg, and then twisted to treat Wilson to one of his irritated, mocking expressions. "What, are you gonna save me from myself again? Give me one of your magic lectures about the evils of liver failure and then tell me how much you _care_?"

Wilson blinked a few times, and then set the creamer aside. "I just want the truth, House. No lectures."

House's nostrils flared and he pivoted on his good leg to stick his face in Wilson's. "You know what? Fine. I got stoned and drunk on the couch because I knew you were gonna sneak out in the middle of the night like nothing happened, and I didn't want to be awake to see it." He gave Wilson a dirty look and hobbled toward his office, his lopsided steps angry, his coffee forgotten on the table.

Wilson stood stunned for a second and then hurried after him. "House, that's just stupid."

"Apparently not. You left," House pointed out. He collapsed into his desk chair and gripped his thigh out of habit.

"You – you – " Wilson made a wordless sound of exasperation and planted his hands on his hips. "House, what do you want from me? Why are you doing this?"

"I'm not doing anything," House snapped. "You started it, you continued it – both times."

"You went along with it," Wilson shot back, though he sounded childish when he did so. He dug his knuckles into his forehead for a moment, and then faced House again, considerably more collected. "What are you trying to get out of me, House? I know you. You haven't put an end to any of this because you're looking for some answer. It's a puzzle to you."

House looked around his desk for something to take up at least part of his attention, and settled on a slinky. "I tried to end it, remember? You're the one who went all seductive."

The toe of Wilson's shoe pressed into the carpet without his conscious volition. "You didn't enjoy last night?"

"Of _course_ I enjoyed last night!" House yelled. "That's half the problem!"

Wilson looked up but House had shut his eyes and was scowling at the slinky. He hadn't meant to say that, which meant that there was some grain of truth to it that he didn't want Wilson to figure out. "You didn't want to enjoy it?"

"Oh for – just get out." House threw the slinky back down onto the desk and turned to switch on his computer.

"No. I'm not leaving until you talk to me."

"I already talked to you. Now, I have work to do."

"You only do work when it helps you avoid something. Talk to me."

"Can't. I'm avoiding you."

"House – "

"I don't want to talk to you!" House made an ugly face at the computer monitor, and Wilson just stood there because he knew that House would cave eventually – he hated Wilson staring at him like that. "Why can't you ever just take anything? Why do you have to know why?"

Wilson shook his head. "I don't think I understand where this is going."

"Just _take_ something for once!" House spun in his chair to regard Wilson. "I take things from you all the time – I never ask permission, I don't thank you, I don't care what it does to you – why can't you do that? Why can't you just take what you want? Why do you always have to give back?"

Wilson turned his head to the side without breaking eye contact. "Uh…because I'm not _you_?"

"Dammit – stop being nice!"

Wilson gave him a bewildered look. It was true – House took all the time. But he only did it maliciously if he thought Wilson deserved it – if he felt that Wilson had wronged him somehow. So House was trying to force Wilson to take from him without regard…because he thought he deserved it? Wilson felt dirty, and a little sick. This thing that had occurred between them…House was using it to punish himself. "Okay. Um…why sex, then?"

"Because it's what you understand."

Anger flared up in Wilson faster than he would have thought possible. "You bastard! I can't believe you would use me like that!"

"I'm not using you, you moron! Haven't you been paying attention?"

"Yes, you are! You're just using me to make yourself feel better – like I'm another fix for your misery, or – or – "

"Yeah, that's right," House spat. "James Wilson is just another one of my instruments of self destruction. You're even better than pills."

Wilson gave a dark laugh and pranced in place, too pissed off to stand still. "You are unbelievable. I thought something good was happening, House. I thought – "

"Oh, save it," House sneered. "You don't want that from me, and you know it."

"You don't know that!" Wilson stepped closer, until he was looming over House where he sat. "Why? Why are you doing this?"

But House wasn't finished. "What are you getting out of this, Wilson?"

"Right now, nothing," Wilson snapped.

"You're getting sex," House pointed out.

Wilson shot House a murderous look. "This is a trick question, right?"

"Fine," House conceded. "What do you _want_ out of this?"

The fire faded from Wilson's body and he looked down.

"Wilson – "

"I don't know." He cast a forlorn look in House's direction. "What do _you_ want?"

House's nostrils flared as he blew a breath out through his nose and looked down. "Now you're just not paying attention anymore."

Wilson dropped his head into his hands and shook it back and forth. "House…I don't have time to deal with your riddles." The tap of House's cane had already passed into the conference room before Wilson realized that House had walked out. He rolled his eyes and muttered, "Asshole," at the ceiling before following him. "Look, I'm sorry."

House lumbered to a halt but kept his back turned. "Why the hell are you always sorry?" He pitched around to glare at Wilson. "Quit being sorry; it's pathetic." He fumed for a second and then demanded, "What do you want from me?"

"You can't turn this around!" Wilson shouted, heedless of the fact that they were audible to the people passing by out in the open corridor. Luckily, not many people were around to gawp. "Tell me why you're doing this."

"Because you never take anything back, Wilson." House had advanced on him, and he jabbed his index finger into Wilson's chest hard enough to stumble him back a step. "What do you want, huh?" Wilson jerked back from the next finger thrust, his temper rising. "What do you want me to do? Tell me, Wilson – tell me what you want me to do!"

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Tell me."

"You have got to be the most – "

"Tell me."

" – arrogant, impossible – "

"Tell me, Wilson."

" – selfish asshole – "

"Tell me!"

"You don't even care how this makes me feel, do you?"

"Tellme what you want!"

"I want you to quit fucking up my life!"

They stood there, squared off, for several seconds. Wilson felt the heat in his face and refused to back down. To his surprise, House stepped back first, placing a safe buffer zone between them. He had this smile on his face that Wilson only ever saw after he's solved a case – the moment when the pieces all fit together and he _gets_ it. But it wasn't a happy expression. "See? That wasn't so hard." He brushed past Wilson and headed toward his office

Wilson shook in place, his adrenalin spiked. "What – that's it?"

House shrugged without turning. "Mm-hm."

Wilson ran his hand through his hair, gripped the back of his neck, and then wandered back to his own office. He couldn't even begin to deal with House's insanity right now. It was too much.

* * *

"What do you mean, I'm out of refills? I have one more. Look." Wilson pulled out the empty Cymbalta bottle and thrust it under the pharmacists nose, wishing Marco were around. Marco wasn't an idiot.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Wilson – "

"_Doctor_ Wilson. I'm a doctor at this hospital – "

"Doctor Wilson, I'm sorry but the computer says the refill was already made. It was logged and picked up."

"When?"

The pharmacist tapped a few keys on the computer. "This morning, sir. Doctor. At 8:30."

Wilson fumed. "How could I have picked it up _this_ morning if I'm _here_ with an _empty_ bottle _now_?!"

"I could call your prescribing physician and ask her to phone in another scrip. It would be ready this afternoon."

"You do that," Wilson barked. He spun away to find Doctor Cuddy standing three feet behind him. "Oh. Hi."

Cuddy gave him a knowing look. "What did House do this time?"

Wilson pursed his lips and just walked past her. Over his shoulder, he called, "Your pharmacy screwed up my medication."

The click of professional high heels followed him to the elevator. "Gee, now who does _that_ remind me of? Seriously – what did he do?"

Wilson stopped in front of the button panel to scrub at his face, and then jabbed the up arrow. "You know, I don't even know what he did."

"Well, that's smart," Cuddy commented as the elevator doors swished open. She followed Wilson inside and then gave him a look that was very reminiscent of House. "Starting off mad does save time. You can be too irritated to care before you even find out what he's done, and cut your emotional recovery time in half."

Wilson glanced aside and then gave his boss an amused but annoyed look. "Well, surviving House is something you have to plan for."

The elevator dinged on the fourth floor and Wilson got out. He was a little surprised that Cuddy followed him, but they were both board members and early-morning on-the-sly meetings (often centered around the issue of House's tenure) were not unheard of. Wilson unlocked his office and gestured her in ahead of him, then waited while she made herself comfortable in his guest chair.

Wilson sat down after donning his lab coat, and presented his happy-oncologist face to Cuddy. "So, what can I do for you?"

"That's kind of creepy," Cuddy said, pointing at his face. "It's like there are two of you."

"Oh. Um." Wilson blinked, but he had no idea how to rid himself of his alter ego. He compromised by leaning back and trying to appear casual. "So…is this about the 2009 budget?"

"No, actually." Cuddy shifted in her seat and crossed her legs before going on. "I'm not here as the Dean. I'm…worried. As a friend. House isn't himself, and to be honest, neither are you. You've both been off since the bus crash, but more so since you came back to work here."

"People dying tends to do that," Wilson snapped, but there was little real venom in his voice. At Cuddy's unfazed stare, Wilson sighed. "What's he been doing?"

"Clinic duty."

Wilson's brows pulled together. "Wait…you're worried because he's doing his job?"

He meant that to be sarcastic, but Cuddy simply nodded and leaned forward. "And _yours_. When he found out you haven't put any hours in since the bus crash, he started pulling double to cover for you." She paused. "You didn't know?"

Wilson was too stunned at first to answer, and his mouth worked like a guppy out of water. "I…no. He didn't say anything… What else? I mean, is that all? Or is he doing something else out of the ordinary?"

"Nothing tangible," Cuddy replied. Her eyes shifted away in embarrassment. "I didn't really start noticing until after…you know. When you two didn't show up, and I came to find you…" She trailed off and refused to look at him.

"Yeah, it's been a little awkward, to say the least." Wilson cleared his throat and rearranged some trinkets on his desk. "I don't know what's going on. I don't… Something's wrong, I just don't know what it is. He's still an asshole, but it seems like…he's being nice to me, in his own screwed up way." He thought back to the argument that morning, but he could make heads nor tails of it. House wanted him to take something for himself. It reminded Wilson poignantly of buying a mattress, and having Amber yell at him because he bought the one _she_ liked.

"Well, even House has to be nice _some_times in a relationship," Cuddy pointed out wryly.

"That's not what this is," Wilson returned. "And this isn't a relationship. We're not together. I was just curious, and he went along with it, and – and things just…got worse…"

Cuddy sat up straighter. "That morning…that was the first time?"

Wilson dropped his head into his hands and shook it. "I think I screwed something up, Lisa." He couldn't stop the despair from creeping into his voice. "He doesn't think I should ever have to apologize to him – he just takes it like he deserves it, and…he thinks I'm a sociopath – "

"What? You're the exact opposite of a sociopath!"

"He called me a serial carer." Wilson tilted his head up enough to meet her gaze. "He said that didn't mean there was any real feeling in it. He doesn't think I'm capable of caring about him, and I don't know if that's a slam against me or against himself." His eyes wandered to the balcony door. "I should have left it alone. The one time, that was fine. It didn't have to mean anything. But…it was fun…and I…I wanted…more…I think, I dunno." He shook his head again.

A few moments passed in silence, and then Cuddy's voice broke it. "He's quieter than usual. Even Foreman asked if something was going on; he said House isn't mocking them enough. And that was Foreman's word – 'enough.' He said he was tempted to do it himself because the new fellows deserve it sometimes. He thinks House is depressed – "

"House is _always_ depressed. It's his modus operandi."

Cuddy put her elbows on the desk, which effectively forced Wilson to look at her. The dean was back in her demeanor. "What goes on between my employees in their personal lives is none of my business…unless it affects the hospital." She paused for emphasis. "You need to do your own clinic hours. And whatever is going on between you and House… Make sure it stays _outside_ these walls. I don't want to have to get involved again, okay?"

Wilson swallowed and nodded. "Yeah. I'm sorry, I just haven't really been feeling like myself lately. It won't affect the hospital."

"Good." Cuddy smiled and stood, then paused in the middle of turning to the door. "And James? If you need a friend, or just somebody to have a coffee with…call me."

She made a quick exit after that and Wilson breathed deeply in the silence.

* * *

Wilson managed to talk himself out of going to House's apartment after work. He was successful the first four times, but somehow managed to find himself parked outside of 221B anyway. He wanted to fix this. Maybe that was just more proof of his pathological need to save everyone, but House had been his best friend for twenty years. He couldn't lose that over something as stupid as sex. Whatever House felt he needed to be punished for, Wilson disagreed, and he intended to prove that. House hadn't done anything wrong, for once.

Wilson didn't even provide a courtesy knock before he jammed House's door key into the lock. If he waited too long, he would loose his nerve, and he really didn't want to loose his nerve. He barged inside to find a surprised House standing framed in his kitchen doorway, his mouth stretched wide around a peanut butter sandwich. Wilson took a deep breath and then blurted out, "I wanna bottom."

House blinked with the sandwich stuck halfway in his mouth, unbitten as of yet. With deliberate nonchalance, he proceeded to rip off a hunk of bread and Jif, and chew it thoughtfully while he gazed at Wilson. After he swallowed, he replied, "And good evening to you too, Dr. Wilson. How was your day?"

"I'm serious." Wilson strode forward and blocked House's way to the couch. "You practically turned into a puddle on your own rug when you bottomed. I want to find out what it's like."

With his eyes trained on the ceiling, House just stood there with a half-eaten sandwich in one hand while he picked bread out from between his teeth with his tongue. Wilson frowned and wondered if he was doing that on purpose to remind Wilson of all the better uses to which he could put that tongue. Probably not, though. House merely needed a second to catch up. "No."

"What?" Wilson let House shove past him and lower himself to the couch. "Why not?"

"Because you're only suggesting it because you think it will make everything better."

Wilson stood there flapping his hands for a second. "I tell you I want to bottom, after you yelled at me to take whatever I wanted, and now you're saying no."

"I know you, Wilson." House picked op the remote and scrolled through his Tivo listings while he conversed. "You're doing it out of altruism."

"Maybe I _want_ to be altruistic."

"It's a compulsion, not a desire."

Wilson's hand found its way to the back of his neck. "I really hate you sometimes."

A snort was his only response, but House continued talking anyway. "You think you can use sex as a crutch for meaning. You think that if you go through the motions of caring, then maybe you actually will care some day. And there's no stronger affirmation of caring than to make love to someone."

"House, answer something for me." Wilson slid between House and the coffee table to take a seat to the left of his friend. "Why are _you_ doing this? Just how much do you feel?"

House's eyes flickered over half the room before he answered. "No more or less than before."

"So you're saying that _you_ haven't changed. You think _I_ have, and this is all some attempt to…what, keep me?" House shrugged, so Wilson pressed on. "You think you need to give me something important, something you think I'll understand – "

"Shut up, Wilson. Quit complicating things."

"I won't shut up."

"Maybe it isn't about you at all," House snapped. "Maybe I'm just taking again."

Wilson considered this for a moment, but it was a no-brainer. "That's not it – you're not enjoying this. You're trying to do something nice for me, I just don't know what it is, and I don't think you do either."

"How do you know I'm not enjoying this?" House shot back. He pointed the remote at the television and jabbed the off button, then turned to Wilson. "You really want to bottom? Fine. Let's go." They stared at each other long enough for a self-satisfied smirk to work its way onto House's face. "See? Told you. It's just a compulsion; you don't actually _want_ it." He faced the television again and lifted the remote.

Wilson snatched it from his hand before he could return to browsing the Tivo selection, and threw it across the room. It landed hard enough to snap off the backing, and batteries flew out across the floor. Wilson made a mental note to find them all later – he didn't want House to slip on them in the middle of the night. Then he kicked himself because that just added to the evidence that House was right about him. "I want you to fuck me."

"No, you don't."

House reached for his cane and started to stand but Wilson yanked him back down to the couch. "Yes, I do." To demonstrate his sincerity, he grabbed House's face and pressed their lips together, gratified that House returned the kiss even if the rest of his body radiated reluctance.

When they broke apart for a breath, House told him, "This isn't gonna fix anything, Wilson."

"Doesn't matter." He sounded desperate and he knew it, but he also knew that House couldn't deny him. They had proven that more than enough lately – House would do anything Wilson asked, no matter what he thought about it. He managed to get his knees planted on either side of House's legs, and then he muttered against his neck, "I want to make you feel good."

House tensed and then tried to shove Wilson off onto the other side of the couch. "No – quit doing that. I told you – "

"I want to do this – just let me." Wilson bore down against him scrabbled to grab his wrists to keep him from fighting it. "You deserve to be happy once in a while, House."

The sound that House made at that confused Wilson, and then his attention was bound up in clutching at the back of the couch as House planted his palms against Wilson's chest and heaved against him with all his strength. Wilson got his legs situated and squeezed them around House's hips, thereby freeing up his hands to wrench House's arms away and pin them against the back of the couch, near his shoulders. House lifted his pelvis and tried to throw Wilson off, but Wilson's position was secure.

After a minute, House gave up and just sat there, catching his breath while Wilson held him in place. Wilson waited until House seemed calm enough, and then leaned in to capture his mouth in an unforgiving kiss. He kept House's forearms pinned but shifted his weight across House's lap so that their groins were aligned. Half of him had no idea what he was doing – House was right about the manner in which Wilson used physical intimacy, but he didn't know any other way to express the level of affection he felt. And he _needed_ House to give up on this desire to punish himself, to inflict Wilson on himself as if that could make things better. He needed House to enjoy this as much as Wilson did. He needed a sort of equality with House that he hadn't gotten out of any other relationship. Whatever that meant.

Wilson ground his pelvis down as he used his tongue to suffocate his best friend. Their lips moved wildly against each other, their noses mashed together as Wilson pressed his mouth harder against House's, until their teeth scraped and he could feel House struggling to swallow without breaking the rhythm. Wilson felt each of House's exhales against his nose and cheek, and he slid his hands up to House's wrists, tightening his grip to keep him from breaking free. He could feel House's breath hitch, could hear him grunt and gasp with each moan that Wilson's mouth cut off and consumed. Wilson increased the tempo of his hips, spread his legs wider on the cushions to lower his groin, to bring them closer. He thrust his clothed length harder against House's. House reared up beneath him and threw his head back, and their mouths separated, but Wilson switched his attention to House's throat and suckled in a brutal fashion, nipping at the skin with abandon and drawing a jagged line across stubble to House's ear.

Wilson's suit pants were too tight now but he was afraid to stop. He feared that the slightest pause would give House an opportunity to put an end to this, and he couldn't let that happen. He ignored the discomfort and attacked House's ear, biting the lobe and tugging on it while he released one of House's hands; Wilson needed it for other things. House immediately wrapped his free arm around Wilson's waist and crushed him against his chest, lifting him slightly off, but he didn't try to stop the motion of their hips, so Wilson let him. He was too busy fumbling to unbuckle his belt.

Without warning, the world tilted and Wilson yelped as he plummeted sideways, hanging half off the couch. House's hands on his arms stopped him from careening to the floor, but gravity still pulled Wilson down in a slow slide. His backside touched down on the rug, one of his legs pressed against the coffee table while the other remained partially tangled beside House. He stared up, stunned as House released his arms and then picked Wilson's remaining leg up off his lap and dumped that onto the floor as well. "Go home, Wilson."

Wilson panted on the floor, blinking at his upside-down view of House. "What?"

"Go home." House scooted across the cushions away from the pile of Wilson at his feet, and then labored to stand up. He left his cane where it was, since Wilson's body was blocking it.

"But – "

"I told you I don't want this," House mumbled over his shoulder as he rounded the couch and made for the kitchen, careful of his footing. "Not like that."

Wilson sat up and considered going after him, but his pride was hurt. House had dismissed him so easily. He climbed to his feet and looked around for his jacket before he realized that he hadn't taken it off. Behind him in the kitchen, he heard House open the refrigerator and then pop the tab on a can of beer.

Wilson didn't leave; he just stood there until House came back, and to his surprise, House held a beer out to him. Wilson turned without taking it, a question in his eyes.

"You can stay if you knock off the whatever-that-was." His voice was husky, and Wilson looked down at the beer he still offered. "Come on. I recorded General Hospital."

It occurred to Wilson that he probably recorded his soap since he was too busy doing Wilson's clinic hours to watch it during the day. That thrust a lump into his throat and he took the beer without a word, pretending to ignore the fact that House sat in the chair instead of resuming his place on the couch. "Stop covering my shifts."

House nodded without glancing away from the television. He had put the remote back together, and he scrolled through the Tivo listing as if nothing untoward had just occurred. They said nothing of consequence for the remainder of the night.

* * *

Wilson woke up to sun streaming in through House's front window, ricocheting off the highly polished sheen of the piano lid and stabbing him right in the eyes. He managed to slur, "Ow," before he realized what the sunshine meant and sat bolt upright on House's couch. "Dammit, I'm late. Dammit, dammit…"

He wasn't actually _that_ late, but he didn't have enough time to stop by his own apartment for a shower and a change of clothes. He didn't want to wear yesterday's clothes into the hospital again, though he could at least catch a shower in the locker room once he finished his morning appointments. He swung his legs onto the floor and flexed to crack his back before standing and stumbling down the hall. He could borrow one of House's undershirts and a pair of socks and, if he was lucky, a dress shirt, assuming House had any clean, unwrinkled ones that would fit him. As for the rest of it, he had a duffle bag in his office with clean pants and a new tie. It would tide him over until his could sneak off to the locker room.

Predictably, House was still asleep when Wilson slipped into his room. He took care not to make any noise as he rifled through the clean clothes in the basket that Wilson had carried in from the washer himself the night before. He found two white tube socks that almost matched, along with a pale blue undershirt, and draped them over his arm while he straightened to rummage in the closet. He passed on several button downs that were too patterned for his taste, and paused for a moment to check the measurements on a maroon dress shirt. It would be a little snug across his belly, but he'd have a suit jacket over it, so it shouldn't matter.

Wilson carefully disentangled it from the hanger and was turning to go when something peculiar caught his eye. It looked like one of those smoky plastic trash can liners, but why was it on the floor of House's closet, half-buried under clothes, shoes and medical journals? He was reaching for it when House stirred behind him. "Wilson?"

Wilson straightened and tried to hide the guilty expression on his face, but he wasn't entirely certain he'd been successful. House squinted at him as if he could smell deception, which maybe he could. "Needed to borrow some clothes," Wilson explained, holding up the garments draped over his arm. "Sorry I woke you."

House shrugged and flopped back to throw his arm over his face and block out both the sunlight and the sight of Wilson. "Bottom drawer of the dresser."

"What?" Wilson glanced back into the closet, hoping to identify the incongruous plastic bag in there, and then looked at House again. He had fallen back to sleep. "House? What about the dresser?"

"Mmph?" House's arm slid off his face, and he gave Wilson a bleary look. "Oh. You leave things here. Shirts and stuff. I put them all in the bottom drawer."

Wilson blinked at him and then padded to the dresser. Sure enough, a pile of Wilson's shirts and a few pairs of his pants filled half the drawer. There was even a tie – his green one. He had thought that Julie burned it in effigy during the divorce proceedings. How had House gotten hold of it?

Wilson fished it out and held it up to the light as he turned to face the bed. "Hey. I've been looking for this – " He broke off upon seeing that House had drifted off again, and then smiled.

His face quickly reverted back to something pensive, though. Little things started to suddenly fall into place for Wilson – little things that he had noticed over the years and filed away as odd, or as significant even though he hadn't been sure why at the time. Take this green tie, for one; House had mocked it the first time Wilson wore it to work, but not in his usual snarky way. He had mocked it as a back-handed compliment, which Wilson knew because House's tone shifted in a certain manner when he tried too hard to sound mean. At some point, Wilson must have removed the green tie while at House's apartment. This was not an abnormal thing for him to do – he took ties off all the time. The unusual thing was that out of all the ties Wilson had taken off while inside 221B, the green one was the only one that House had absconded with…the only one he'd saved, and he'd had it for _years_…the one he thought Wilson looked good in.

So many other things over the years seemed different when taken in light of the events of the past couple of months. How had Wilson never noticed? House coveted Wilson's attention – he hated to see Wilson dating, he obsessed any time he thought something was wrong with Wilson, or whenever he thought Wilson was hiding something. It wasn't just House being nosey – House didn't go to such lengths with anyone else. He consulted Wilson on his cases even when it was clear that cancer was not the culprit. For God's sake – he had stalked Wilson for a month and tossed four hundred dollars at him just to have a conversation. And he had been covering Wilson's clinic hours for nearly six months, in silence, signing Wilson's name in the logs just to be nice…just to keep Cuddy off Wilson's back while he sorted himself out.

And the night that Wilson had quit PPTH…when he had looked House right in the eyes and told him that they had never been friends…Wilson had wanted to hurt House with those words, and God, had it felt good to see House's face freeze, to watch him stop breathing, to see the stricken expression draw all of his arrogant features slack. But the ease with which Wilson had hurt him, the extent to which he had managed to devastate House with one sentence…House didn't make himself that vulnerable to anyone. House _never_ let himself get emotionally invested in another person because he refused to put himself in a position to be hurt. And yet, he had let Wilson hurt him – had kept on letting Wilson hurt him, had sought Wilson out again and again just so that Wilson could keep doing things and saying things to hurt him.

Wilson softly shut the dresser drawer and straightened to regard the snoring figure of his best friend. House thought Wilson was shallow, that he only wanted something physical from House. At first, that had been true – Wilson had seen an opportunity to get something more from their friendship, and in a way, he had thought that House owed him that. Now, Wilson wasn't sure what he wanted from House. He didn't even know what House was after, though he might finally be in a position to guess.

"_What do _you_ want?"_

"_Now you're just not paying attention anymore."_

Paying attention to what? What did House want him to pay attention to? Wilson stared at his sleeping friend, at the only person who had stuck by him throughout his adult life. Most people thought House was lucky to have Wilson; the truth may have been the other way around, at least partially. If Wilson were anyone else (and if House were anyone else too, for that matter), he would have been tempted to think that House not merely had feelings for Wilson, but _feelings_ for Wilson. _Those_ sorts of feelings. _If_ they were any other two people.

Wilson's gaze lingered for a few seconds more, and then he flared his nostrils and laid his clothes in a neat pile on top of the dresser. He started toward the bed, hesitated, and then looked down. A deep breath huffed from his mouth and he shook his head before gathering the clothes back up and hurrying out. It was stupid, Wilson knew; but the way it had felt last night when had House rejected him…it stung. House had never denied him – he wasn't capable of denying him. And yet… Something about the dismissal, the refusal to let Wilson pleasure him, was significant. Something Wilson had said, maybe.

"Shut up," Wilson muttered to himself. "Gonna give yourself a headache trying to understand him."

He got dressed in the living room and left for work without a second thought.

* * *

The morning was uneventful, which in itself was an event. House didn't barge into Wilson's office at all before lunch. At noon, Wilson called House's cell phone to see if he had even left his apartment. He could hear Abba through the wall that separated their offices, and sure enough, House answered as the snippet of ring tone began to repeat.

"You are everything that's wrong with the technology age."

Wilson blinked at held his phone far enough away that he could shoot the receiver a confused glare. "What?"

"Dude, I'm twenty feet away. Now, if you were me, that would be cool. Twenty feet to a cripple is like climbing stadium bleachers for a normal person. But you? It's no wonder you're cultivating love handles."

"Oh…kay." Wilson shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Look. I just wanted to make sure you bothered coming in today." The door to his office crashed inward and Wilson dropped his phone as he scrambled back to avoid getting a doorknob slammed into his balls. "Holy – House!"

"Here." House snapped his cell phone shut as he limp-sauntered in, his cane hooked on the crook of his left elbow. "It's good to know I've already been divinized. Now all I need is one of those really cool hats with the crossy thing on it." He pantomimed the shape of a Pope-hat on his head.

"It would catch fire," Wilson deadpanned. He hid his disgruntled expression by bending down to retrieve the phone and setting it back in the cradle on his desk. "You've been awfully quiet today."

House shrugged, but the gesture did not appear the least bit casual. "Is that bad? I haven't fucked anything up for you all morning."

"You…" Wilson's jaw went slack as the emotion behind the shrug hit him. "Oh my God. House, I didn't mean that. At least, not like that."

All House did was glance at him, and then he unhooked his cane from his arm and wandered over to the balcony door.

"Is that what happened last night?" Wilson demanded. He rounded his guest chairs and came up behind House. The reflection in the glass door betrayed the flicker of House's lids and the bob of his adam's apple as he swallowed. That was as close to an affirmation as Wilson would get to a loaded question such as that. "You aren't fucking up my life, House. Not right now, anyway."

That had not been the right thing to say, but Wilson replayed his words too late to avert disaster. House dipped his head for a second and then spun around, his back pressed to the door. "But I will. Eventually. Right?"

"What? No! Why do you always have to twist everything I say into something – I dunno – demented? Why do you have to take everything I say so literally?" Wilson spread his hands and shook his head, giving House his _come on, lay it on me_ face.

"Right. It's all about me."

"Cut the crap, House. What's really eating you?"

House's nostrils flared as he glanced aside, and Wilson could see him gathering his composure. This was gonna be a big one; House only did that before he dropped anvils and drove unsuspecting bystanders to tears. His gaze returned to Wilson and he had that defiant look in his eyes that he used as a front for his fear of rejection. That particular fear, in this circumstance, was not quite what Wilson had expected. He had thought that House might fear getting hurt, might figure that he'd lose Wilson if he did something atrocious, but the brand of rejection that House anticipated when he used this expression was more the kind that comes from being marginalized. It was the one House used right before he said something honest.

House took a moment to press his tongue into the corner of his mouth, and then he burst out, "How much is it worth to you?"

"Wait…what?" Wilson gave him a bewildered look.

"This…me. How much is it worth?"

"House, I don't even know how to begin to – "

"Two dates? Three?"

Wilson stared at him, his brows drawn together. "What are you talking about?"

"How many dates do you have to go on with a girl before her worth exceeds mine?"

Wilson gaped, hardly able to believe that he was serious.

"Okay," House said, turning half away to stare up at the corner of the room while he continued. "Maybe you don't measure it in number of evenings spent together. Maybe you look at length of time since the initial meeting."

"I can't believe this." Wilson threw his hands up and paced toward the door just to collect himself without having to look at House. "You're trying to objectively measure how much I care about you by comparing yourself to my girlfriends?" He turned back to pierce House with an expectant look.

House shrugged, and his eyes drifted back to Wilson's. "Why not? I measured our friendship by mooching off of you."

"I'm not having this conversation," Wilson stated. He stomped to his desk and flopped into the chair, but stood back up again when House approached his desk.

"Okay, fine," House said, but he leaned forward over the handle of his cane and kept going. "You knew Amber for four months before I noticed you disappearing on weeknights and making weekend plans that didn't include me. Is that the exchange rate? Twenty years of me is equal to four months of anyone else? Or maybe you calculate it by number of quickies in the car. How many of _those_ does it take before they're worth more than me, huh?"

Wilson felt his knees turn rubbery. "House – "

House stepped closer, effectively cutting him off. "I'm just a couch to you. Beer and pizza on movie night, or a place to sleep when your squeeze-of-the-week catches you cheating on her. If you have a problem, it's 'House, you're so insensitive this,' and 'why can't you be a real friend,' that. But if I have a problem, it's my own fault for being a crippled, miserable, drug-addicted asshole, and you have better things to do." He gained steam as he ranted, his body strumming with tension and anger, and Wilson shrank back. "How many dates before their life is more important than mine, Wilson? Before I go from your best friend to your only-sometimes fair-weather friend? Your obligation?" House shuffled another step forward, his entire body twitching as he placed enough weight on his bad leg to make that step. "How many blow jobs does it take before losing _them_ hurts more than losing _me_?"

Wilson's breath came in short, shallow bursts as he stared, wide-eyed and mildly terrified, at the figure of his best friend. "I thought we were past that. I said I was sorry. I thought…" He made an incoherent sound in the back of his throat.

House drank in Wilson's discomfort, then jutted his chin out and inhaled the way he did when he was self conscious but trying to disguise it as sarcasm. "Well, that's helpful. So glad we talked."

Wilson caught at his arm as he tried to edge by. "Wait. You can't just walk out."

Every bit of stiffness seemed to drain from House's taut limbs when Wilson's hand touched him. He sounded defeated when he said, "It's okay, Wilson. I get it."

"No you don't. We need to discuss this."

"No, _you_ need to discuss this. I've already said everything I intend to say."

"No, you haven't."

"Gee, I'm so glad I have you around to tell me when I have to get something off my chest. How else would I ever know?" House tried again to slip past Wilson, this time with a bit of help from his cane.

"Ow!" Wilson let him go and hopped out of his path, if only to save his other foot from similar treatment. "Was that really necessary?"

"You tell me."

Wilson watched him disappear into the hallway, and then he succumbed to his throbbing toes and lowered himself onto the arm of his couch. He barely had time to enjoy his reprieve before he saw House's agitated shadow moving around on the balcony. "Great. Now what?"

Once House had dragged himself over the dividing wall, he hobbled through the door and lobbed a smoky plastic bag at Wilson. "Open it."

Wilson let the bag rebound from his lap and fall uncontested to the floor, his hands occupied in massaging his maltreated toes through his shoe. He narrowed his eyes and threw House a dirty look. "Didn't your mother teach you to say please?"

"Just open it," House snapped, and then he turned away so he couldn't see Wilson's face.

Hm. That was interesting. Wilson looked down at the smoky plastic bag, curious. It looked like the one from House's closet. He glanced up at House's back; House was absorbed in fervent contemplation of the filing cabinet, both of his hands clasped over the handle of his cane. Very interesting. Wilson considered teasing him about his attack of self consciousness, but that might invite House to take back the bag and leave before Wilson got a chance to look inside. In the end, curiosity won out. He leaned sideways far enough to snag at the knot and settled properly onto the couch with the bag in his lap. House stirred at the crinkle of plastic and hunched slightly, but he didn't turn around. Strange indeed.

Wilson dug his fingers into the plastic and ripped it open. Puzzlement stole over his features as he first pulled out an old argyle sock with a hole in the toe. Wilson used to have a pair just like it but he had worn a hole in one of them and thrown them…both…out… He dropped the sock and took the edge of the ripped plastic gingerly between two fingers to hold it open far enough that he could peer inside. This was Wilson's trash – from the can in his bedroom – from almost three weeks ago. The light penetrated the smoky liner just enough to illuminate the cuffs near the back.

Wilson's breath quickened, not in a good way, and he raised his eyes to House's tense figure on the other side of the room. His voice came out weak, quavering when he asked, "What is this supposed to mean?"

House straightened and directed his eyes toward the ceiling as he took a preparatory breath. "I thought we could try it again."

"No." Wilson bundled the bag shut as if it were something vile – which he thought it was. "You promised – "

" – not to let _you_ bring it up again," House broke in. "You didn't say _I_ couldn't suggest it."

"Why in God's name would you suggest it?" Wilson demanded. He tossed the bag toward the garbage can but missed. It bounced off the corner of his desk and spilled at the base of his office chair. House wandered toward it without looking at anything in particular, then paused to slide a pencil out of the cup beside Wilson's computer monitor. "House. Why are you suggesting it?"

House expelled a sharp breath and then threw the pencil violently but harmlessly across the desk. "Because I don't know what else to do!"

Wilson watched the pencil skitter onto the shelf behind his desk, struck silent. He couldn't remember ever hearing so much raw feeling suffused into any words that ever came from House's mouth. His voice shouldn't sound like that. After a stunned moment passed, Wilson uttered, "To do about what? What – why are you worried about… I don't even know what you're worried about, come to think of it."

"Never mind," House muttered, making for the door more quickly than a man with a lame leg should be able to move. "It was stupid."

Wilson let him go without a fight this time because he was too bewildered to react. The shrill ringing of his office phone took him by surprise and he leapt to grab it as if the sound could shatter sanity itself. It was just Brown asking him about the staff meeting at two. With only half an ear for the conversation, Wilson confirmed that he wanted the oncology nurses to attend. The other half of his attention glued itself to the smoky plastic bag three feet away. There was some sort of accusation in there, he was sure of it, but it could have been directed at either one of them. Worse, Wilson could not help remembering their one attempt to use its contents. Vividly.

He hung up the phone as quickly he could manage and then sat down hard to ride out the dizziness that assaulted him at the recollection. With shaking hands, he fumbled aside the edges of his lab coat and contemplated the swell of flesh pressed against his zipper. God, there was something wrong with him. Something very, very wrong with him if he could listen to his best friend pretty much say that he felt worthless, and then get a hard-on a minute later while thinking about ways to debase him further.

* * *

Wilson burst into the apartment without knocking and enjoyed the tremendous racket caused when the door careened into the wall and rattled the books on the shelves across the room. He had managed to work himself rabid since leaving the hospital. Nothing had gotten done that afternoon; Wilson had thought about House and the damn cuffs and their entire conversation all through the staff meeting, and then in the clinic afterwards – thought about House demanding that Wilson hold a number of dates and blow jobs up against twenty years of friendship. And then he had thought about what could happen if they tried the cuffs again, and then –

Then he had been forced to visit the locker rooms and take a frigid shower, which had not helped, so he had just gone ahead and gratified himself because there had been nothing else for it. As if needing to jerk off at work weren't bad enough, Chase had managed to take up residence in the next shower stall without Wilson noticing; he had been too caught up in the memory of House's body squirming against the insides of his thighs, of holding him down and struggling to restrain him, of the way House's muslces shivered as he fought against Wilson, of how his voice grew pitchy and uneven, of the way he pleaded even after he knew that Wilson wouldn't stop…the feel of his abdomen heaving with his labored breaths, brushing against Wilson's groin in spite of his panicked attempts to get away…his beautifully lined body strained to its limit as he threw his head back and tried to tip Wilson off…

The memory alone had brought him to climax hard enough to render silence impossible. Of course, afterwards, Wilson had realized that he was no longer alone. Thankfully, the Australian had not commented upon emerging from the shower to find Wilson glowering, red-faced from embarrassment, over the laces on his dress shoes as he tried to escape the locker room without being roped into a conversation.

This was all House's fault somehow – this entire situation. He wasn't sure _how_ yet, but it was. It was always House's fault. The drive over had calmed him down some, though not much. Just what the hell was House thinking? Honestly – what went on in the pure, unadulterated insanity of his mind? First, he completely freaks out when Wilson tries to use the cuffs – which is not par for House to begin with – then he pretty much yells at Wilson to do him, and then he dumps him on the floor, and now…now he's just proving how much of a manipulative bastard he is!

Wilson stomped into the soft halo cast by the floor lamp near the couch. Nothing moved in the living room and the kitchen lights were out. He listened for the shower, and then for any rustles at all. Silence greeted him – mocked him – and he hefted the plastic bag in his left hand. "House, I know you're in here." Still nothing. He clutched at the back of his neck, pursed his lips, and then clomped into the hallway. "House!"

The bathroom and bedroom were both empty and Wilson spun in a circle in the hallway, convinced that he must have missed a secret spare room or magic wardrobe that could hide his best (infuriating, pain-in-the-ass) friend. Well, even House went out, he supposed. Wilson's anger simmered but diffused as he wandered back to the living room with nothing to vent it on. They really were screwed up – both of them. Wilson stared at the couch, wondering how two men could run so hot and cold on each other so often and not grow sick of each other. Did Wilson really make House feel like a throw-away commodity, like his life was worth less than everyone else's? Did House have that much of an inferiority complex, or was Wilson just that unknowingly cruel to him?

Maybe Cuddy had been right, at least in spirit, when she had tried to force couples counseling on them. If anything, they were both slightly disturbed and they fed on each other in negative ways. The past two months were an excellent example of just how deranged they could get when left to their own devices.

Wilson heaved a sigh and lobbed the damnable plastic bag onto the lid of the piano. He knew how fanatical House was about fingerprints and smudges, and even cross-eyed glances where his piano was concerned. It gave Wilson grim satisfaction to imagine the look on House's face if he could see Wilson defiling it with a foreign object.

Just to be an ass (as if House didn't deserve just deserts), Wilson walked over and laid a nice, big, sweaty handprint on the lid, dead center. Then he grinned and let out a cheeky laugh. Yeah, that would show him.

"Did you just touch my piano?"

Wilson jumped and tripped over the bench as he whirled around. House stood framed in the doorway, his keys in one hand and a plastic grocery bag in the other. A loaf of bread and the end of a box of pasta poked out from between the handles, and Wilson could make out the patterns on the labels of jars of peanut butter and jelly. "No."

House's head tipped to the side but he didn't seem to be in a rampaging sort of mood. "Liar." He swung the door shut and shrugged out of his coat, precariously balanced on his good leg while he tried to juggle the bag and his cane, and get his arms out of the sleeves at the same time. Wilson automatically stepped forward to help but House warned him off with a glare cold enough to ice the surface of a fresh cup of coffee. "Why are you here?"

Wilson sighed and looked down, then let his gaze rove at random so long as it didn't encounter House. "We _do_ need to talk, House. Both of us. The things you said in my office… I don't like what's happening, and I don't like that you think you have to – I dunno – placate me, or indulge me, or – or – " Wilson flustered himself off into silence and threw his hands about in some sort of pattern of emotional distress. A second later, he merely exhaled, shut his mouth, and let his hands fall to his sides. "Just talk, House. Say something."

"I'm not placating you," House replied, his tone forbidding. He got his coat off without dropping anything and left it in a pile on his desk as he limped toward the kitchen. "You think I'd suggest it if I didn't want to do it?"

"Yes." Wilson followed him and hovered in the doorway. "After you spent an entire evening telling me how much you _didn't_ want to use the cuffs, do you really expect me to believe – "

"I don't expect anything," House cut him off. He played with an invisible speck on the countertop and then turned to face Wilson, though he refused to make eye contact. "It wasn't as bad as you think." He swept a hand downward and explained, "My leg just got in the way."

Wilson regarded him incredulously. "House, you were screaming at me to stop."

"So?" House shrugged. "Doesn't mean it didn't feel good."

Wilson blinked and gaped, shut his mouth, let his head jerk to the side, and blinked again. "Okay, you lost me."

"No safe word this time," House went on, ignoring Wilson's confused and slightly frightened expression. It was like they were carrying on two entirely different conversations and yet still interacting seamlessly with each other in spite of the disconnect. "If there's no safe word, I won't be tempted to use it. No repeats of last time. I know you won't hurt me, not on purpose. I can trust you." He continued to find random crumbs to flick from the countertop and invisible stains to scratch off with his fingernails. "Look, I want you to do it, and I already know you enjoy it."

Outwardly, Wilson's whole being was captivated by the motion of House's fingers on the countertop, but his brain whirred at breakneck speeds while getting nowhere. "No I don't. I – "

"Stop lying, Wilson. I was there, remember? I saw the look on your face when you refused to let me go. Hell – I had your dick pressed up against my abdomen half the time – I _know_ you got off on it."

Wilson's mouth worked soundlessly for a second while he tried to make some sense out of his recalcitrant thoughts. "So you…you want me to tie you down and…and…" His voice lowered until it was hardly a disbelieving whisper in the still room. "…_rape you?_"

"It's not rape if it's consensual."

"House, that's sick. Even for you." Wilson stepped back but he couldn't tear his eyes from his best friend; he was too shocked, too disgusted, too…too confused. And yet, god help him – the thought had a certain undeniable appeal. If House agreed to it – if he _asked_ for it – was it really that wrong? "Why would you want that? Do you _want_ me to hurt you?" House didn't answer either way, so no – he didn't _want_ Wilson to hurt him. But he _needed_ it. "Okay, I can tell this is – this is cathartic for you, somehow. But it isn't sexual. Is it?"

House threw his gaze around the room, looking anywhere but at Wilson. "What does it matter? I told you to go ahead and do it. You shouldn't care why." He abandoned the invisible distractions on the countertop and shouldered past Wilson, headed toward the couch.

"Well, I _do_ care," Wilson insisted, and House paused in the middle of the living room. "I'm your friend, House. I – "

"You don't care."

Wilson stopped speaking and blinked at the flat, emotionless delivery of that one line. It was like House managed to negate twenty years of Wilson's life inside the space of three words, and something in Wilson just snapped at that. "Fine, you want this? You can have it."

Wilson lashed out without thinking and caught House in the jaw with his fist, sending him tumbling over the arm of the couch to land squarely on the cushions. House appeared stunned, and then his eyes grew wide as Wilson advanced on him. "Wait, this isn't what I had in mind – "

"I don't care," Wilson parroted. He seized House by the lapels of his blazer and dragged him upright again, ignoring the pained gasp as his leg buckled and he nearly fell. Wilson caught him around the waist from behind and proceeded to haul him into the hallway.

House managed to set his foot well enough to hinder Wilson's progress, which made Wilson even angrier – even more determined to _hurt him back_. "Wilson, hang on. I didn't mean you could just – "

Wilson paused long enough to backhand him, and then a real fight ensued. They ended up on the floor somehow and Wilson saw red. He couldn't believe that House could be such a manipulative bastard. He'd been toying with Wilson for weeks – mixed signals, bouts of passion interspersed with weird, pointless arguments – it was nuts. _He _was nuts, and he was dragging Wilson into the pistachio bin with him. "_Bastard!_ You can't even answer a simple question for me, can you? You can't be honest for one _fucking_ minute!"

"Wilson! For Christ's sake, stop it!"

"No safe word!" Wilson shouted back. He seized House's arm and twisted it up behind his back, then shoved him over onto his stomach and reveled in the broken cry that signaled stressed ligaments and pain. "Do you have any idea what you've put me through these last few weeks?"

"_Shit!_" House gasped into the floor and Wilson pushed his arm higher just to hear him try not to squeal. "Wilson, I'm sorry – I'm _sorry!_"

"Really? What are you sorry for this time? I can't keep track of how _sorry_ you are anymore." Wilson lurched to his feet and dragged House upright as well, just to pitch him at the bed and watch him bounce against the mattress and catch himself on the bed post, his bad leg bent at what must have been a painful angle. "Sorry for what – the games?" He grabbed the back of House's shirt and his belt and manhandled him with much more strength than he could have boasted without the benefit of adrenalin. "Or maybe you're sorry for lying, or for antagonizing me every chance you get."

"No – Wilson, listen to me – "

"I'm through listening to you!" Wilson hollered. He threw House down on the bed and then climbed up over him, fighting to pull him toward the headboard. "I _hate_ you, House! I hate the constant _tests_, and the _puzzles_, and the _smoke screens_ – "

"No! No, Wilson, wait, I didn't mean – "

Wilson smacked him again to shut him up, and the sight of blood on House's upper lip just left Wilson more frenzied. "I'm sick of you playing me like I'm one of your idiot patients! I'm sick of you taking me for granted – I'm _sick of you!_"

"_Wilson, stop!_"

"Not fun anymore, is it?" Wilson finally managed to tangle House's hands up in the sleeves of his blazer, and he thrust them over House's head. "Are you still sorry, House? _Are you?_"

"Yes! You have to believe me this time – you _have _to – "

"I don't have to do anything!" Wilson could feel his own hard on, and while it sickened him to know the cause, it also left him feeling exhilarated. "Why should I believe anything you say? You _lie_ to me every chance you get – you don't even know what the truth looks like, House."

House shut his eyes and gave up trying not to let the tears leak out. "I didn't mean for this. I didn't – I just wanted – "

"What? What did you want?"

"I wanted to trust you!" House gasped, his entire body wracked with tremors.

"Yeah? Trust is a two way street, House."

"I know," House managed to croak out between broken breaths. "I thought if I trusted you, then you could trust me, and then you'd believe me – "

House's voice caught and he stopped speaking, but something he said got through – it made Wilson pause in the act of unbuckling House's belt long enough to demand, "Believe you about what?" House didn't answer – he seemed unable to form words and the incongruous picture before Wilson was enough to penetrate the haze of irrational anger that had engulfed him. "House, believe what?"

"That I'm sorry." House's voice cracked in the middle of his apology and Wilson cringed upon hearing it. "About Amber. She made you happy and I took her away from you, and I don't know how to make it right."

"_What?_" Wilson could hardly breath. "House, I told you I didn't blame you."

"But you do…you didn't believe me when I said I was sorry. You think it's just an angle – you think I only said it to make you stay, but I meant it…"

Wilson couldn't answer; he didn't know what to say. Of course he thought it was angle – it _was_ an angle. House didn't feel guilty for what had happened because House was ruled by logic, and logic said he wasn't responsible. "What do you think you can gain by getting me to believe you? What does it even matter?"

"I just…I just want…" House fought for control of his voice and sniffled pathetically to clear his nose of the blood that Wilson had put there with a well-placed punch. "You never forgave me…"

"Because you didn't do anything."

"_Yes I did! I killed Amber!_" He swallowed thickly and met Wilson's gaze. "If you really don't think I did anything wrong then it should be easy. Just say you forgive me."

Wilson glanced around the bedroom as if it could provide answers. "All of this…the clinic duty, and the – the sex…this was…penitence?"

House may have nodded but he was shaking too violently for Wilson to be sure. "I'm sorry," he repeated. "I'm sorry, Wilson…I'm sorry I couldn't save her…I'm sorry I'm not dead and she is. I couldn't save her. I tried, but I couldn't. I just – I want you to be happy again. I have to make you happy." His throat bobbed and Wilson could see him struggling to swallow, his chest stuttering as he tried and failed to say more.

Wilson stared at him, too taken aback to respond. He watched fresh tears well up in House's eyes – so blue that they shone. He had never seen House's eyes look like that, swimming in liquid sorrow. These past months – all the clues House had left, all the confessions that he could only make in his own indirect way, probably hoping and terrified at the same time that Wilson would figure it out…House was trying to pay for having taken the life of a woman Wilson cared about – taken without asking, as House had put it. And he was doing it the best way he could think of: by trying to replace her so that Wilson could be happy again. Only, he wasn't good enough. And he knew it.

Wilson couldn't respond – he couldn't say that he forgave him. He wanted to, he did, but…he couldn't say it. Instead, what he said was, "You're not sorry. You just don't want me to leave again."

Wilson could actually see the light fade from his best friend's eyes as he robbed House of his one last hope for salvaging whatever they had left between them. The tears spilled over and House fell back on the bed, limp, unprotesting, his eyes closed again. There was no fight left in him – no reason to resist anymore, and Wilson found that he couldn't look. He scrambled and nearly fell off the bed in his haste to leave – to leave House there alone. Again. He couldn't handle this – he needed to get out. He glanced back long enough to see House roll over and curl in on himself, his body shuddering uncontrollably, and then Wilson bolted.

* * *

Wilson spent some indeterminate number of hours at whatever dive he had ended up in, staring at the same shot glass full of the same whiskey. He was actually surprised when the barkeep kicked him out so that he could close up. It occurred to him that he should at least call House to see if he was okay but Wilson couldn't bring himself to hit the send button while he stood next to his car in the parking lot and stared at the blurred screen of his cell phone.

What had he done? How could he have said that to House? A preponderance of evidence attested to House's sincerity – to the guilt he felt, whether it was logical or not. He had been willing to do anything just to hear Wilson say three words. And instead of saying them, instead of being honest, Wilson had managed to dig up the most hurtful sentences imaginable and then he had uttered them just to be spiteful. There wasn't even a reason for the spite. He had just found the words and said them because the implications of what House was asking for…his need for absolution… It was staggering. Wilson still couldn't wrap his head around it, but instead of saying so and asking for an explanation that House may or may not have granted, he had simply lashed out the way he always did when House hit too close to something that Wilson didn't want to face. Only this time, he hadn't taken refuge in sarcasm or beer, or a relaxing, familiar movie night on House's couch. He hadn't even hurled a bottle at a window.

No, what he _had _done was try to break his only real friend. The worst part was that Wilson feared he had succeeded in that. He couldn't get his last glimpse of House out of his head: folded into himself, hugging his knees and silently shaking. And Wilson had walked out on that. Wilson, the 'serial carer,' had turned around and left him like that. He was tempted to think that House's insensitive ways had rubbed off on him over the years, but no; House was always there when Wilson needed him. Maybe he didn't say or do the right thing, or act the way Wilson wanted him to, but he was always _there_, and he always tried to help, as much as his convoluted personality made him capable of it.

House abused his sensibilities sometimes, but Wilson didn't think that House took him for granted at all. It was the other way around. Wilson marginalized him; the second someone else showed up on the scene, Wilson abandoned him, but he expected House to wait around for him like a pitiable old lap dog hoping for a friendly glance and nothing more. And House _did_. That was, perhaps, the worst part. In the end, House wasn't nearly as much of a misanthrope as everyone thought; if Wilson had never met him, House still would have been a bit of a bastard, but he would have found other friends. He could have had Cameron, but he had made a point of screwing that up. Even Chase would have befriended him; Wilson could never figure out why House had gone bowling with him only once, and then ceased all overtures. Chase had actually described the evening as pleasant up until House had disappeared to solve his case, but even that seemed to endear him to Chase; Chase had chuckled over it when he had related it to Wilson the next morning while waiting in line at the coffee kiosk. And yet, they had not repeated the experience. Why not?

Because Chase wasn't Wilson, and House wanted Wilson. Everyone could see it except Wilson. Hell – when Wilson had quit and House had been forced to talk to other doctors in search of a replacement friend, at least one of them had thought that House was hitting on him. _Everyone else_ seemed to see House clearly in that respect. But not Wilson. He was too self-absorbed to notice.

He fumbled in his pockets until he found his keys, and then he climbed into his car. He couldn't face House already, but he needed to know that his cruelty had not…well…he needed to know that House was relatively okay. The drive back to 221B took a lot longer than the drive away had felt. Wilson pulled up next to House's motorcycle and put his hazards on. The living room window was dark but a glow seeped out from between the curtains on House's bedroom window to filter past a few wintery tree branches. He wondered if House had even moved off the bed, and the thought of that made Wilson shiver and blink furiously to clear his vision.

He couldn't tell anything from the street, and in the end, his conscience forced him to park properly and walk to House's door. He let himself into the foyer and approached House's apartment with his head ducked into the collar of his coat, meek. A few soft knocks drew no sounds from the space beyond the wood, and Wilson rapped his knuckles harder against the slightly chipped green paint. He swore that the light thump he heard on the other side came from the rubber tip of a cane.

Wilson opened his mouth to call out but his throat closed and he had to swallow before he could get any noise to pass his lips. "House? I won't come in. I just want to know if you're okay. I…" He trailed off, remembering the blood in House's nostrils, the split lip… "Do you need me to call somebody? Cuddy, maybe? I could get her to come over and take a look at you."

The next thump was definitely a cane-step, and Wilson exhaled in relief to know that House was walking around. But he didn't answer Wilson. It sounded like he pulled out the chair at his desk, though, and Wilson cringed at the scrape of laquered-wood-on-laquered-wood, which resembled the screech of nails on a chalkboard. The sound approached the door and Wilson watched the peep hole, confused. A second later, the doorknob rattled and canted downward, and then 221B descended into silence. House had wedged the chair under the doorknob to keep Wilson from getting in with his key.

Wilson made no effort this time to blink away his tears, but he stopped short of audible sniffs or hitched breaths. His nose burned and he nodded at the door as if House could see him. He hadn't heard House walk away from the door, come to think of it; maybe he was watching Wilson through the peep hole. Just in case, Wilson looked at it and nodded again. Then he gathered himself and turned away. He just stood there for a second, though, with his head bowed, and then he gripped the back of his neck and wandered outside to his car. When he glanced up at the apartment windows this time, he saw light in the living room, but no House.

Wilson averted his gaze and slipped into the driver's seat, trying desperately to ignore the rising panic in his gut. If House were finished with him after this, it would serve Wilson right, but he couldn't imagine what he would do without House to fall back on. Maybe that was half the problem; if he needed House so much, then Wilson shouldn't think of him as a fall-back. Only, he _did_ think of House that way, and he had no idea how to rectify it. Wilson was certainly more than House's fall-back. He was House's first and only choice. House _wanted_ Wilson more than he _needed_ Wilson. And want was infinitely more valuable than need.

Wilson shifted into drive and pulled out, glancing at the orange Repsol as he passed it by. He could fix this. He had to fix this. House had offered up everything, including his dignity, just to save their friendship. Not even that – the friendship had survived, against all odds. What House had wanted to save was something far less tangible. Wilson owed him better than this. He would find a way to fix it. All of it. And then maybe things could go back to the way they used to be.


	6. Absolution

A/N: Thanks again to all of you who have been reading and commenting. I've been trying to get into the habit of responding but I'm a slacker. :P Please don't hate me.

Passionfornight turned me onto a really uncanny song - you guys should google the lyrics. Taylor Swift's "You're Not Sorry." Good grief - it's like listenning to House. Thanks for that!

And here's the next chapter. Hope you all like it!

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When Wilson showed up at work the next morning, House was nowhere to be seen. He was definitely in the hospital somewhere; his fellows had seen him working in the clinic as they arrived. Wilson didn't credit this at first. Not only did House avoid the clinic like the plague –

Wait, no. House _wouldn't_ actually avoid the plague.

Not only did House avoid the clinic like…well, like the clinic, but after last night, he had expected House to play hooky just to avoid Wilson. They had fought before, yes, but never like that, and House had never refused him entrance afterwards – or worse, actively barricaded himself off from Wilson. This new independence, this rejection after all of the things that House had put up with before then and forgiven Wilson for…it terrified Wilson. He had no right to demand House's forgiveness, not after Wilson had refused to give House that very same thing, but he had not expected this cold withdrawal from his life, even if (he hoped) it proved to be only temporary.

Then again, Wilson had physically attacked House. Maybe House was right to cut himself off.

A glance out at House's parking space confirmed that he was indeed in the vicinity. Wilson looked for him everywhere, including the clinic (where he was _not_ working), but he seemed to have disappeared. His usual haunts showed evidence of his recent comings and goings, but Wilson was too far behind him to catch up. Other things caught his eye, though; strange things. He was on good terms with the entire nursing staff, even with the ones he had occasionally bedded, but three random RN's shot him such hateful looks that Wilson actually stopped to stare back.

Eventually, he made his way to the front desk and Brenda handed him a stack of messages accompanied by a cool greeting. Wilson's gaze lifted from the little sheaf of pink papers and rested on Brenda's averted face. "Is something going on I should know about?"

Brenda glanced up, her expression hard, and then turned her attention back to her computer, where she continued to enter patient records from the previous afternoon's patient files. "House was in here this morning, covering your hours again."

"Oh." Wilson shuffled through his messages but he didn't bother reading any of them. "I told him to stop doing that."

Brenda nodded, her head tilted to the side in a sarcastic manner. "Well, maybe you should hit him harder next time you tell him. It might sink in better."

Wilson's eyes flew up to search her face and Brenda left off typing to peer up at him. "I'm not saying we wouldn't all wait in line for the opportunity to take a swing at him. But I had to kick him out of here. He was scaring people."

"Patients? How? What did he do?"

"Not patients," Brenda explained. "Nurses. Me, for one." She pointed to herself.

Wilson nodded, but he was even more confused. "What did he do?"

Brenda looked down at that and then gestured at exam room two. "I found him crying."

"House doesn't cry," Wilson argued, dumbfounded. Except that he did, and Wilson had caused him to do so too often lately. "Did he say why…?"

"No." Brenda leaned forward and reached for another file, putting her back to Wilson. "But it doesn't take a genius to figure it out. You loosened one of his teeth, by the way. I heard Doctor Cuddy yell at him for ignoring it."

Wilson nodded, made one last half-hearted attempt to pay attention to his messages, and then sighed. "Just give these to Doctor Brown, will you?" He held the stack of pink notes out to Brenda, who took them back and added them to another pile, presumably for Brown. It was just as likely, however, that she'd just save them for tomorrow and hand them to Wilson a second time.

Halfway to the elevators, Wilson heard the rapid click of high heels and hunched his shoulders in unconscious imitation of House. Doctor Cuddy strode purposefully into his field of vision. Wilson started to say good morning, but she cut him off and hissed, "In my office. Now."

Wilson ducked his head in embarrassment and trailed her across the lobby like a little kid on his way to the principal's office for sticking gum in some girl's hair. She held the door open and motioned him in, then slipped after him and slammed the door shut. The blinds were already pulled. No sooner had Wilson turned to face her than she demanded, "_What the hell happened to House?_"

Wilson said the first thing that came to mind. "Is he still here?"

"_No_, he's not still here!" Cuddy shouted. "He looks like he got beat up in a bar fight and he's acting like – like – " She vigorously shook her head and swiveled her hands at ear level, exasperated. She settled on, "Not like himself," and then stopped to regard Wilson with a caring yet firm expression. Her voice was disbelieving but hard when she asked, "Wilson, did you actually hit him?"

Wilson glanced away as quickly as he could manage, started to answer, and then everything seemed to crash down around him at once. He ended up sitting on her couch, spilling everything that had happened between them in the past two months because he needed someone else to know what an asshole he had been. Cuddy just watched him as he spoke, her face growing more and more sympathetic but horrified as Wilson chronicled his increasingly cruel behavior in the bluntest terms he could find.

"I need to talk to him," Wilson muttered after he was finished and Cuddy still hadn't said anything. "I need to apologize – "

"No, you need to stay away from him." Cuddy's voice cut through Wilson's monologue like ice on a warm day. "James, do you even realize what you've done? You're in a physical relationship with another employee here – an abusive one. I have to report you. Do you understand that?"

Wilson nodded but said, "It doesn't matter. House will refuse to go to the police, he'll deny it – "

"You think that makes it okay?" Cuddy demanded, incredulous.

"No, I think it makes it worse!" Wilson shouted, then shrank back into the couch again. "God, Lisa, haven't you been listening? He considers all of this consensual – _he_ thinks that makes it okay."

Cuddy shook her head and peered sadly at him over the coffee table. "I never thought I'd be having a conversation like this with you. With _you_. James… I don't even know what to say to you."

"Tell me how much of an ass I am. Tell me even House was never as bad as I am."

Cuddy let out a dark laugh. "Yeah, well, that goes without saying."

Wilson clasped his hands and looked anywhere but at her. "Did he talk to you?"

"No." Cuddy shook her head and leaned back, crossing her legs. "You know House. He made up three completely transparent lies to explain why somebody tried to rearrange his face, and then he gimped off. I told him to go home. Far as I know, he left."

"No. His car's still outside." Wilson rubbed a hand across his forehead, then down over his eyes and sighed. "I don't know what's worse. That he let me use him like that, or that I went along with it like a blind idiot. Why would he let me do that?"

"He loves you," Cuddy replied with complete conviction.

Wilson snorted. "No, he doesn't. I thought he might for a while there, but it was just some bid for my attention, some – "

"I don't think you should say any more right now," Cuddy warned. "_You're_ the one who attacked _him_, remember? House's motives may have been weird, but he's _not_ to blame here."

Wilson nodded hard enough to flop hair into his eyes. "Yeah. I know. I'm just…I'm used to…I dunno. I'm used to it being his fault when crap like this happens."

They sat in uncomfortable, ponderous silence for a moment, and then Cuddy offered, "He _does_ love you. He's just confused. And so are you." She uncrossed her legs and stood up abruptly. "I _am_ going to report this, Wilson. I don't have a choice."

"I know," Wilson replied, climbing to his feet as well. "You should. Just don't expect House to appreciate it."

"I never do," Cuddy said wryly, then tipped her head at the door. "You can go."

Wilson scrambled to get out, ashamed of pretty much everything at that point, and high-tailed it to the elevator. If House were still in the building, then Wilson had to find him. He needed to make things right between them, or at least give House what he had been after all this time: forgiveness. He had more than earned it.

After running around the hospital for half an hour in search of his friend, hoping that House _was _his friend still, Wilson gave up and made his way back to his office. He hadn't even stopped in to drop off his coat and briefcase yet, and when he unlocked the door, he was surprised to find his desk lamp on. The janitors must have forgotten to switch it off after they vacuumed his office the night before.

Wilson hung up his wool coat and reached for his starched white lab jacket. He turned around with one arm in the lab coat sleeve, the other bent behind his back in the process of reaching for the other, to find his secretary standing in the doorway. She appeared supremely uncomfortable as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. "Good morning, Doctor Wilson."

Wilson shrugged the lab coat up onto his shoulders and let it settle into place. "Good morning. Is that for me?" He indicated the envelope that she proceeded to worry between her fingers. The poor girl stuttered something about knowing how he didn't bother with intra-hospital mail until after lunch, and Wilson cut her off. "What is it?"

"Doctor House sent this," she replied, handing over the letter. "I thought it was odd since he doesn't write memos to you, and when he needs a consult, he just comes over and barges in." Wilson accepted the envelope and she grasped the hem of her shirt to knead instead. "And he…he just seemed off, and I thought you might want to see it now." She appeared to debate saying more, then turned to go with a muttered, "I'll be at my desk if you need anything."

Wilson watched her hurry out and turn the corner into the next hallway, then pursed his lips and looked down. House had used a PPTH-embossed envelope and Wilson's name was scribbled across it in House's familiar messy script. House knew Wilson's schedule just as well or better than he knew that of his soaps and daytime television in general. If he had sent this via intra-hospital mail, then he had counted on Wilson not reading it for at least four more hours. That did not exactly raise any red flags, but his secretary was right; something was 'off' about it. Wilson considered leaving it for later with the thought that if he opened it early, House might find out and be less receptive to Wilson later, but curiosity got the better of him. He reached for a letter opener and ran a slit up one side, then shook out a sheet of yellow paper that had come from one of those legal pads that House occasionally doodled on in absence of a white board. It had been folded over four times and Wilson smoothed out the creases like the slightly obsessive person that he was, waiting until the paper would lay flat before he deigned to read it.

_Wilson,_

_I'm sorry I couldn't make you happy again,_

_so I'll do what you asked instead._

There was no signature, nothing beyond Wilson's name and those two lines. He turned the paper over, expecting to find more, but the only things on the reverse were a series of squiggles and random geometric shapes, and a few spots of ink where the writing from other pages had bled through. Just doodles. Wilson flipped the page back over and re-read it, convinced that he must be missing something.

_Tell me what you want me to do!_

_I want you to quit fucking up my life!_

Wilson's head fell to one side as his thoughts wandered far afield, much as House's did when his long-sought epiphanies left him staring through walls.

_I thought about it, you know. When she died, and you wouldn't talk to me. I thought about it._

_I'm not sure we were ever friends._

_You want me to risk _my_ life…to save hers?_

_Bastard! You can't be honest for one _fucking_ minute!_

_You have to believe me this time – you _have_ to…_

_You're not sorry. You just don't want me to leave again._

…_I'm sorry I'm not dead…_

"Oh my god." Wilson's blood ran cold and he looked up as if his walls could prove his suspicions wrong. "Oh my god." He fumbled in his pockets to find his cell phone but it wasn't there. "No, no, no…" He lunged for his desk phone instead and dialed House's cell number, but he heard Abba playing right there in the office with him. Wilson's eyes raced over every surface in the room before he thought to grab at the breast pocket of his lab coat. House's cell phone was tucked in there behind Wilson's prescription pad, nestled between two pens. "Shit!"

Wilson stabbed the disconnect and then dialed the diagnostics office, mumbling denials to stave off the panic as it rang and then switched over to voicemail. He dropped the phone and missed the cradle but ran out without bothering to fix it. Foreman looked up as Wilson careened into the door and then struggled to shove it open. "Where is he?"

"Why?" Foreman asked, put off by Wilson's abruptness.

"Just tell me! Now!"

Foreman's brows shot up but he started to look concerned. "What's wrong?"

"Foreman – "

"He left," Kutner offered from the hallway behind him. He sauntered past Wilson and flopped into a chair at the conference room table with a donut in one hand and a coffee in the other. "I saw him outside about an hour ago."

"No, his car's still here," Wilson started, but Kutner cut him off.

"He took a cab. One of the nurses said something about Cuddy not letting him drive like that." He shrugged, uncaring and seemingly oblivious to Wilson's gapingly obvious fear. "Whatever that means."

Wilson's insides pooled on the floor somewhere near the blotch on the carpet across the room that marked out House's spilt blood. "Ohmygodnoohmygodnoohmygod – " He spun around and dashed out, knocking into some nurse and pushing a patient out of the way. He heard Foreman call after him, confusion painting his voice, but Wilson threw himself into the stairwell and skipped half of the steps on his way down, pausing only to make sure that his car keys were still in his pocket.

_Why are you doing this?_

I don't know how to make it right.

He barreled out through the fire door and into the main lobby, probably looking half-crazed, and people hastened out of his way as he ran for the doors. A glimpse of Cuddy side-tracked him long enough to shout, "_Why the hell didn't you tell me he took a cab home?!!_" and then he was outside, slipping on the icy sidewalk and hurtling in the direction of his car.

"Wilson!" Cuddy ran to catch up, her heels in her hands as she sprinted after him with nothing but nylons to protect her feet. "What's – "

"He's gonna kill himself!" Wilson yelled over his shoulder as he reached his car and yanked the door open. He threw himself inside and jammed the key into the ignition. The engine roared to life a second later. Cuddy side-stepped as Wilson gunned the motor and peeled out of his parking space, her face horrified as she watched him speed away.

Wilson ignored every traffic law there was on the way to 221B, House's cell phone pasted to his ear as he called House's apartment phone again and again and again…

Why are you here?

_You didn't answer your phone. Who'd feed me if you went off and did something stupid?_

All the spaces in front of House's apartment were full so Wilson just stopped in the road and spilled out of his car, leaving the door of his Volvo hanging open and the engine still running. Hobos could steal it and use it for a toilet for all he cared.

"House!" Wilson's body impacted the green door and he pounded against it, frantic. "House, open up! House, please!" Wilson's hands shook as he searched his pockets and then realized that he'd left his keys in the car. He swore and dashed back outside, convinced that he was too late but afraid to stop. The keys seemed determined to stay stuck in the ignition and Wilson heard himself sobbing and pleading at the Volvo to let them go.

I hate you, House!

It's okay, Wilson. I get it.

The ignition yielded and Wilson ignored the honks of angry motorists as he pelted himself back into House's building, slamming into the green door again in his haste to unlock it. Tears obscured Wilson's vision as he finally forced the door open, and he tripped over his own feet as he lurched inside, his heart pounding in his throat and his voice shrill. "House! Answer me, please! House!"

What, are you gonna save me from myself again?

"Yes!" Wilson croaked three days too late.

You don't care.

"I do care," Wilson moaned, both hands laced across the back of his neck.

You don't get it, do you?

He ransacked the living room with his eyes, half afraid to find House passed out in the exact same place as before, on Christmas, with an empty bottle of maker's mark on the coffee table and a stolen scrip for oxy on the floor next to him. He wasn't there.

Twice now, you've wanted me dead.

I want you alive now.

The kitchen was empty too and Wilson rebounded off the wall in his haste to get into the hallway. He slammed the bathroom door open hard enough to crash into the tiles and send plaster chips raining down onto the bath mat. The tub was dry and the rest of the room showed a noticeable lack of House. Wilson abandoned the bathroom and shoved his shoulder against the bedroom door. It swung open.

How much is it worth to you?

Wilson's voice died in his throat but he whispered, "House?"

Nothing stirred in that room, including the form curled up on the bed, loosely wrapped around Wilson's couch blanket and pillow.

Wilson forced himself to move forward, to climb up onto the bed and touch his face. House's skin was cool but not cold. A stuttering hope nearly stopped Wilson's heart and he felt at House's neck, pressing his fingers over the carotid. A sluggish pulse met his fingers and Wilson's breath fell from his lungs in gasps and hiccoughs as he opened House's cell phone and started pressing buttons without really paying them any attention.

"House?"

Cuddy's voice. He must have hit on House's address book. Wilson drew in a ragged breath and rasped, "No. Lisa, I need an ambulance."

He heard Cuddy's office phone line go on speaker and then she was giving House's address to the EMS dispatcher. "Wilson, talk to me. What are we dealing with? Did he overdose?"

Wilson's fingers stayed glued to House's pulse point but his eyes moved over the contents of the room. An amber bottle sat on the night stand. A full amber bottle. "No."

"Are you sure?"

"They're all there," Wilson replied.

He was too much in shock to wonder if Cuddy understood his meaning, but she seemed to comprehend him just fine. "Then what was it?" Cuddy asked, her voice soft and stern, soothing but deliberate as she spoke to him. "Wilson – what he did he do? Did he take something else? Morphine, maybe? Did he cut himself?"

"There's no blood." Wilson stared at House's unmoving body, aware that his affect was flat and his voice barren. "No needle marks." He tried desperately to control his breathing but his eyesight blurred. "I dunno what he did…Lisa – "

"It's okay, James. The ambulance is on its way. It'll be okay."

The phone slipped from Wilson's ear and landed with a soft thump on the bedspread, forgotten. "House?" He shook his friend's shoulder. "House, wake up. Come on…you have to wake up." The pulse beneath his fingertips fluttered and then slowed, and Wilson's breath quickened. "House, no!" He rolled House onto his back and grabbed his face. "Look at me, come on. You have to wake up. House!" Wilson couldn't tell if he was breathing anymore but he could hear sirens in the distance. "House! You can't leave me. Please, don't go!" Wilson ran his thumbs across the stubble of House's cheeks but the blue eyes didn't open and Wilson screamed, "I forgive you!" before he dissolved into tears and collapsed against House's unmoving chest, pleading incoherently for him to stay. Just stay. Anything to make him stay.

* * *

Wilson couldn't remember any part of the ambulance ride aside from the EMT's crass comment about having met House before and it serving him right if they couldn't get his pulse back. His knuckles throbbed, though, as he sat in the emergency waiting room with his head hanging between his knees, so he guessed that he had punched the guy. Cuddy would probably report him for that, too.

"James?"

Wilson raised his head enough to see Cuddy's long legs perched atop high heels a few feet away, and then he went back to visually tracing the patterns in the faux-marble linoleum floor tiles. "I killed my best friend."

"You didn't," Cuddy countered. Her heels clacked as she approached and sat next to him. Other patients and their families made a point of getting up and finding places further away from Wilson to sit. Her hand appeared on his shoulder blade and he shrugged away from it. "James, look at me."

Wilson lifted his head again. It felt heavier than it should and the movement drew the skin of his neck tight across the lump that rested in his throat. "I should have stayed. I should have made sure he was okay and talked to him, and…and made it right. I shouldn't have left him like that – he thought I hated him. He thought there was nothing else he could do to get me to forgive him. I should have just handed him a gun. Or a syringe."

Cuddy rested her hands in her lap and chose not to address his morose commentary. "You're suspended with pay pending a full investigation and a disciplinary hearing. The board is considering revoking your tenure." She leaned forward and caught his wandering gaze. "If he dies…the police will investigate too. You should get a lawyer."

Wilson's eyes slid back to the floor and he nodded, his tongue too thick in his mouth to let him answer.

"What's that?" Cuddy asked. She pointed to the worn ball of yellow paper crumpled in Wilson's fist and he relinquished it when she held out her hand for it. He heard her smoothing it open and then her breathing grew shallow. "Oh."

"He was right."

Cuddy folded the paper back into quarters, the way House had originally folded it, and handed it back. "About what?"

"I wanted him dead. After I found out that Amber was…was probably gonna die, and…" Wilson took a shuddering breath. "And I was relieved."

"What – what do you mean? About what?"

The burn settled back in Wilson's nose and he squeezed his eyes shut to stop them from tearing. "I was glad she was dying instead of him. I was relieved that it was only her, and not him. And then I – "

"Felt guilty," Cuddy finished.

"No." Wilson swiped angrily at his face with the hand that did not hold the yellow paper. "No, I thought that if I asked him to do the DBS, he'd say no, and then I could hate him. I could tell him what an ass he is and that his selfishness got her killed, and I could hate him for being an uncaring bastard. I could never speak to him again, and I wouldn't be in that position ever again – to be glad that someone was dying and that it wasn't him. Except he said yes. And I – " His voice caught and he swallowed through it. "That's when I wished he'd died on the bus. When he said yes. Because I couldn't hate him for saying yes."

"Oh…James…"

Cuddy may have said more, but the soft approach of footsteps distracted them both. Cameron drew up in front of them, her scrub cap in her hand, and Wilson dreaded her pronouncement too much to look up. They had called it. House's heart had stopped in the ambulance; he had coded. They must have called it by now.

Cuddy spoke for both of them. "Just spit it out, Doctor Cameron."

"We pumped his stomach but whatever he took had already dissolved and entered his bloodstream. The tox screen showed opiates, but not a lethal dose. He probably took five or six Vicodin at once – not smart, but not fatal either."

"He didn't overdose?" Cuddy asked in disbelief.

"I told you all his pills were still there," Wilson snapped, except the words tumbled out too slowly to have any real bite.

Cameron ignored Wilson and addressed herself to Cuddy. "Not on Vicodin. We went through his pockets…"

Wilson glanced up as Cameron held a prescription bottle out for Cuddy's inspection. "I don't understand," Cuddy said. "This scrip is for Wilson."

"Yeah." Cameron nodded and shot Wilson an uncomfortable look. "He probably took the entire scrip at once – forty-five pills, fifty milligrams each of Cymbalta. Taken alone, even an entire month's supply shouldn't be fatal to a healthy adult. He would have passed out for a while, maybe seized a few times, and then woken up miserable. That's probably why he took the six Vicodin first. They depressed his respirations and slowed his heart rate enough that…" She didn't need to finish that sentence.

Wilson sank lower in his chair, the crumpled yellow paper garish and offensive in the center of his vision. "The pharmacy…when they screwed up my refill…"

Cameron nodded and worried at the scrub cap in her hands. "I checked the pharmacy logs but House has gotten better at forging your signature. Marco remembered it, though. He said it was weird but he figured that even if House was stealing the pills, then at least his taking anti-depressants would be an improvement."

"I guess I'll be suspending him too, then," Cuddy muttered. Wilson watched her hands as they ran down her thighs, smoothing out the wrinkles in her salmon-colored skirt. Then she looked at him. "Why would he go to all that trouble? Why not just shoot up or take his own pills? Why steal yours?"

"Revenge," Wilson replied hollowly.

Cuddy scoffed. "You're telling me he tried to kill himself just to get back at you? House has more imagination than that."

"No – he tried to kill himself because he feels worthless," Wilson growled, surprised by his own vehemence. "Because nobody picks him over anyone else." Wilson inhaled and calmed himself before adding, "He probably would have done it anyway, eventually. Killing himself, that was for him. Using my scrip – that was revenge. That was to make it my fault."

Cameron shifted, clearly eager to get away, and Cuddy told her, "You still haven't told us how he's doing."

Cameron swallowed and Wilson finally found the gall to meet her gaze, bracing himself for the words that would pretty much end his own life too. "We've given him opioid-blockers and he's on IV fluids and meds to keep his blood pressure up. We didn't need to leave the breathing tube in but he's on increased oxygen. He's stable."

Wilson didn't actually hear her the first time. A rush of blood and silence assaulted his ears and his body started quaking, one step ahead of his brain. Wilson could make out Cuddy's voice repeating it over and over – "He's stable. It's okay, he's gonna be fine. He's stable, James…" – until he understood. Her arms were around him and he leaned against her, too relieved to care about the scene he was making and how House would mock him for sobbing and carrying on like an idiot, in public no less. He couldn't wait to hear it.

* * *

Wilson practically threw a fit when Cameron led him to House's room and he noticed the restraints on his wrists.

"Wilson, he'll be on suicide watch when he wakes up!" Cuddy shouted, her hands on his shoulders in an effort to calm him down.

"I don't care! Get them off!"

After a fair bit of yelling, and a terrified candy striper's call to the security desk, Cuddy ordered that the restraints be taken off, at least for now. They would reevaluate it after House woke up and spoke to the psychologist. The guards shuffled off at Cuddy's insistence and Wilson dragged a chair up next to the bed. Everyone left him alone after that, for which he thanked them. There were too many people in his world right now; he only needed one.

Wilson finally got a good look at what he had done to House's face the night before. His lip was split but the swelling had gone down, and though his nose had bled, it appeared unbroken, the skin slightly darker than usual but otherwise unblemished. Not so the bruise on the right side of his face, where Wilson had landed his first blow. A purple splotch bloomed across his cheek bone, turning yellow at the edges and painting the usual circle under his eye an ugly shade of something close to magenta. Wilson reached out to trace the edges of the mark where it spread past the rim of the oxygen mask, ashamed at having put it there. He wondered how House would react upon waking, not dead, to find Wilson sitting beside him. It reminded him of waiting for House to open his eyes after electrocuting himself, except that House had fully expected to survive that.

He had paged Amber to make certain of it.

Wilson slid back in the chair and put his hands in his lap. He had always warned people not to try and figure out how House's mind worked – had told them that House would eat up any attempt and spit it back out in some unrecognizable form, sort of the same way that Hector tended to do with shoes. Like a moron, Wilson had ignored his own advice. He had witnessed numerous examples of how House could twist intentions and actions into the exact opposite of what they appeared to be on the outside, his motives complicated and multi-layered and yet so carefully planned. Deliberate and guarded. And always meaningful, whether House himself realized it or not. Wilson had somehow thought that he knew better – that House was only House with other people. Idiot. House was always House, and that was never what one expected him to be.

It was what Wilson loved about him, though – that House could keep everyone guessing, could keep life interesting. And yes, Wilson admitted it to himself: he loved House. He didn't know how, exactly, or what that meant, but he did. He needed House around to hold up that infuriating mirror, to lay every single one of Wilson's intentions bare and to call him on his hypocrisy. He needed House to remind him that no one was perfect, least of all Wilson, and that it was okay to be flawed. House embraced his own shortcomings not because he was a bastard but because he knew better than to deny their existence. What you know about yourself can't hurt you.

A beep sounded from the heart monitor and Wilson looked up to find hazy blue eyes fixed on him from over the rim of the breathing mask. "You're thinking again," House slurred, his voice gravelly and muffled by plastic.

Wilson's face loosened and he offered House a sheepish grin, though he remained wary of hoping that House was fully cognizant of his surroundings, or in touch with the events that had led them here. House looked dopey and his bleary eyes stayed at half mast. "How are you feeling?"

"Mph." House's head settled back on the pillow and he blinked at the ceiling a few times. The oxygen mask clouded on each exhale. "You punched a paramedic."

"You…you remember that?"

House's head rolled from side to side on the pillow and his eyes slid shut as he murmured, "Cameron said you punched a paramedic for me."

Wilson looked down and smiled. "Hmph. Yeah, well. He was an ass."

"Me too."

Wilson's smile faded and he got to his feet so that he could see House's face better. "No. No, you weren't. I was out of line."

"What line?" House's brow crinkled but he didn't open his eyes. He seemed on the verge of sleep. "They don't like line-jumpers," he mumbled, his voice breathy as it grew fainter. "Get you a cane…they just let you in front…no lines…"

Wilson watched House's face smooth out in sleep, the steady rise and fall of his chest a small comfort. Once it became apparent that House would be out for a while, Wilson lowered himself back into his chair and settled in. The soft beeps of hospital machinery lulled him down too, and eventually, he dozed off.

* * *

"Look, House, I know the two of you aren't really getting along right now, but just talk to him."

"I don't wanna talk to him. I want him to leave."

Wilson stirred, his brain registering voices, but the sleep was so nice and dark and comfy…

"He's sorry. He just needs to tell you – "

"Why should I care? He didn't."

"And he made a mistake, which he's admitted. For once, don't be an ass."

Was that Cuddy? Yeah…Wilson could smell her perfume. It must be morning cuz she only smelled that strong right after she got in, freshly showered. He burrowed into the chair, impressed with himself for working all of that out, and settled again.

"He's still asleep."

"Then wake him up and get rid of him. I don't want him here."

"House, he saved your life."

A grumpy snort hit Wilson's ears and he found himself almost awake. "I didn't ask him to."

"Oh, grow up."

"You too? Why don't you just start a club."

"House – "

"I'm not the one who went nuts and beat up his best friend."

"One bruise doesn't count as beating up."

Silence. Wilson's ears perked up and he cracked his eyes open far enough to see House fiddling with the blanket, his face angry and betrayed though he refused to defend himself further.

Cuddy sighed and passed her hand between them. "I'm sorry. You're right. He was…he got mixed up. That's why I reported him."

House's head whipped up. "You what? Why would you do that? He'll lose his practice."

"What was I supposed to do?" Cuddy lowered her voice and stepped closer to House, hiding Wilson from House's line of sight. Wilson opened his eyes the rest of the way but stayed contorted in the chair, ignoring the screaming protest of his lower back.

"You could have kept your mouth shut. It's none of your business."

"House, you were crying – Don't give me that look, I saw you myself. You were in my exam room with your face in your elbow, scaring my nurses into thinking you'd lost it. What was I supposed to do? Pretend you were fine?"

"How did you even find out – No, wait, don't tell me. Wilson confessed, didn't he. He spilled his pretty little guts all over your office and you gave him a hug and let him look down your shirt to make him feel better."

"Quit being an ass." Cuddy straightened and put one hand on her hip while the other toyed with her hair. "I told him to get a lawyer. And then he said you'd try and play it off as consensual." Tellingly, House didn't respond. "Look, I'm not saying you should sever all ties and have him shot at dawn. But stop letting him walk all over you." She started to leave and then turned back. "And stop playing games with his head. If you'd just had a conversation with him at the beginning, none of this would have happened."

"I did have a conversation," House murmured, and Cuddy paused in the act of walking out. "He didn't believe me. He never does. It doesn't matter what I say."

"House – "

"Words don't mean anything."

"Actions speak louder."

"Yeah." House picked at his IV line and scratched the skin around the port. "They do."

Cuddy sighed and came back, and Wilson shut his eyes before she noticed him watching. He heard her footsteps bring her up to the bedside, and then someone smoothed their hands over blankets and the bed creaked when House shifted his weight. "Neither one of you is very good at listening. Just try. Okay?"

Cuddy clomped out and Wilson feigned sleep, waiting for House to call him out and accuse him of faking. When a full minute passed in silence, Wilson opened his eyes. House wasn't even looking at him; he was staring at the blinds drawn across the window, his hands resting on his stomach and his legs crossed at the ankles. Two pillows cushioned his bad leg and raised his knee to a more comfortable angle, but it obviously hurt; his hand inched toward his thigh every few seconds and then he moved it back to his stomach with a will. The opiate blockers must have been in his system still, but surely they could give him something else until they wore off. He was sweating; he must be in early stage detox already.

Wilson uncrossed his leg and hissed as he set it on the floor. It had fallen asleep ages ago. He looked back up but House continued to stare at the blinds. "I forgive you."

"I heard you the first time."

"Oh." Wilson scooted forward in the chair but he didn't stand up yet for fear of his dead leg giving out. Ironic, that. He looked down. "I thought you were dying."

"Yeah. I figured that's the only reason you said it."

Wilson's head shot up. He started to tell House that he meant it, that it wasn't just some deathbed absolution, but he didn't. House wouldn't have believed him, and Wilson couldn't blame him for it. Instead, he asked, "What on earth made you try to kill yourself? It wasn't just me, was it." He didn't say it like a question. "You took my pills a week ago. You were thinking about it way before I went off on you. Why?"

House shrugged. "I already went over it with the mandatory therapist."

"So…you're just not gonna talk to me?"

"Why should I?"

Wilson hesitated long enough to gather some semblance of resolve, and then he stood up and hobbled to the bed on his half-dead, tingling leg. He leaned on the bed rail and House glanced curiously at his hands before resuming his deliberations with the blinds. "I need to know if this whole thing was just your screwed up way of trying to apologize to me. I need to know if even a little bit was real, or if you were just so desperate to get me back that you would have done anything whether you wanted to or not."

At that, House finally met Wilson's gaze, but the blue eyes were painfully open, raw. Wilson could feel the hurt there but he maintained eye contact. "Does it matter?"

Wilson nodded. "Yeah, it matters."

"Why?"

Wilson drew in a deep breath. "Because for a while there, I think I wanted a relationship with you. And if it was all a lie – "

"It wasn't."

Wilson stuttered himself to silence and gauged House's honesty by the set of his eyes. Yes, that was the truth, or at least part of it. "Which parts were real?"

House's brows drew down between his eyes; he appeared genuinely perplexed. "All of it." That gave Wilson pause. The typical House-ish answer made little sense to him, but House apparently saw no reason for the confusion that spread across Wilson's face. "I didn't lie – I meant everything I said."

And he probably had, at that. House didn't distinguish between degrees of truth – he just laid it all out there for others to see, or not, as their capability allowed. Wilson simply needed to ask the right questions. "Why did you pick up my scrip from the pharmacy?"

"You needed a refill."

Wilson expected more, but House either wasn't in a mood to cooperate, or he couldn't see what Wilson was getting at. A month ago, Wilson would have gone with the former, hands down. Now he wasn't so sure. "Why didn't you give them to me then?"

House shrugged. "Didn't see you again until after work, and your shrink had already phoned you in a new one."

"So you just held onto them?"

House averted his gaze at that and rearranged an IV line. "It was moot; you already had another scrip."

"You were afraid I'd get mad at you, weren't you. For forging my signature again." A shrug answered that one and Wilson leaned over to untangle the IV lines so that House would leave off distracting himself with them. "Why did you put yourself through all of this?" He laid the lines across House's thigh and batted his hands away when he reached for them again. "What exactly did you feel guilty for?"

"I don't want to talk to you anymore."

Wilson looked down and redistributed his weight. "After Amber died, I was pissed off at you."

House nodded. "Yeah, I got that. I kill – "

"I was pissed off because you were willing to risk your life when you knew damn well that no matter what was wrong with her, she'd still probably die."

House's eyes moved over the contours of the blanket spread over his legs, but he didn't say anything.

"I needed you," Wilson said, leaning forward. "I needed you to stop me and you didn't."

"But…you wanted me to save her."

"Yeah," Wilson agreed, but only because he didn't feel like thinking up a convincing lie. "And you knew that you couldn't. And it didn't stop you from humoring me into nearly killing you. How do you think I would have felt if you'd died in the DBS chair on account of me?" He paused and picked at House's sleeve, glad that House didn't snatch his arm away. "How could you think that it's okay for me to think so little of you?"

House looked up, finally. His eye bespoke volumes of bewilderment and betrayal and something like lost hope. Wilson's words didn't seem to be having any positive effect on him; just the opposite. "You knew I wouldn't say no. You – didn't you?"

Wilson tried to answer in the negative but House's openness demanded the same in return. His eyes flickered away and then fixed on House's again. "I guess…maybe I hoped – "

"You asshole!" House flung Wilson's arm away and sat up, clenching his hands on the bed rail as Wilson jumped back. "You don't get it, do you? I was glad she died! When you came over to my apartment and you wanted me, I was glad she was dead because if she were alive, I wouldn't get a chance to have you!" He wrestled with the IV lines and then just ripped them out so that he could stand up and advance on Wilson. "Do you get it? I was glad I hurt you so much that you almost never spoke to me again, because if I hadn't, you would've stayed with her!"

"House, you're bleeding – "

"I'm second-best to you!" House yelled, and people in the hallway stopped to stare. "You were bored and lonely, so you settled on me, and I'm actually pathetic enough that I was okay with that!"

"What, no! I don't settle – "

"You always settle! You don't want me, you want her, but she's dead so you'll take the proxy – "

"She was the proxy!"

Both men froze and glared at each other, House dripping crimson splotches all over the floor from his severed IV ports. Then House's lips drew back in a sneer and he hissed, "Liar."

Wilson breathed deeply to calm himself. "I'm not lying. You're right. I always end up on your couch – I always come back to you, so maybe this time, I figured I should just stay with you." House didn't say anything, so Wilson continued. "You know what I liked about her? She was just like you, at least on the surface. And then after the bus crash, I realized that I was glad that of the two of you, you were fine. Yeah, I was pissed at you, and I think you're an arrogant prick. But you're my arrogant prick. That's why I was so mad at you, House. I did pick you over her, but you didn't. You would have left me with the stand-in just because you can't fucking stand up to me when it really counts. And we both know she wouldn't have lasted – I would've screwed it up because that's what I always do. Except this time, when I finally realize that she's not what I want and I drive her off, you wouldn't have been there!"

Wilson didn't even see it coming. One second, he was nose-to-nose with House, the heat rising in his face, and then he was suddenly staring up at the ceiling with the crash cart half-spilled on top of him. He lifted his head far enough to see House cradling his knuckles before fumbling to grab his cane and run out, as much as House could run. Then Wilson let his head flop back against the floor. He could taste blood in his mouth; House probably broke his nose. Black spots danced in his vision and he decided to just let them come. The nurses could clean everything up later.

* * *

Wilson remembered seeing House again a few minutes after he passed out. Or House's feet, anyway. He had found some scrub pants but his feet were still bare. Cuddy took up the rest of his field of vision as she was kneeling on the floor and pressing a wad of gauze against his face while he tried to roll onto his back. The only thought in his head was that House hadn't run off after all; he had gone for help. But as soon as Cuddy made Wilson understand that he had to stay lying on his side so that he didn't aspirate on the blood draining through the back of his mouth, House left. He actually left – grabbed a bag full of his clothes and personables, and walked out without looking back.

That was the last time Wilson saw him. Three weeks passed. Wilson spent his entire suspension at home, in Amber's old apartment, staring at the walls and trying to figure out why he didn't have even one picture of House anywhere amongst his personal things. There must have been at least one mixed in with his wedding photos, considering that House had been his best man twice, but his ex wives had kept those and probably burned them. Hell, they had probably culled out the ones with House in them long before the divorces; neither of them had like him.

The board would make their decision by the end of the day as to whether Wilson retained his tenure – and his practice at PPTH – or not. He wasn't sure what he wanted them to do. Part of him was terrified at the thought of his professional reputation hanging in tatters, but more of him couldn't stand the thought of having to go back to work one office away from House.

Wilson had called him. For the first couple of days, he had called repeatedly, almost every hour until the night progressed to the point where even House would be asleep. Then Wilson had called two or three times a day. And then just once. Finally, he had stopped calling altogether because he thought for sure that House was merely playing one of his games – that he would cave and call back as soon as Wilson stopped playing along. He didn't. And that was somehow worse than letting the line ring out until the wee hours of the morning.

Cuddy had promised to stop by and give him the news in person. He didn't know why she couldn't just call him. Maybe she wanted to bring his things with her so that he wouldn't have to go back on hospital property to clean out his office. She had called him every day of his suspension as if she thought he would do something stupid. That was the only reason he kept picking up; he didn't want her to think that. Plus, he needed the reassurance that House was just being his stubborn self and that his failure to take Wilson's calls was not due to a repeat attempt to purge himself from Wilson's life. Cuddy said he was fine, if a little withdrawn. When Wilson asked her if House had said anything about him, Wilson had gotten his answer in the form of empty static over the phone line. Cuddy had started to apologize when Wilson hung up. It occurred to him that he could drive over to 221B but his fear kept him home. What if House refused to speak to him? What if he just left Wilson out there in the hallway rapping his knuckles against green paint until he wore them bloody?

The knocks didn't quite reach his ears at first. A second later, his visitor pounded with a closed fist and Wilson started from where he sat on the couch. Cuddy was here. His life was over. He was about to lose his job, his practice and his reputation on top of his best friend. Forget it – on top of his only friend. Wilson didn't have anyone except House anymore. Maybe he had come to this point by accident, but he was here nonetheless. And he didn't know what to do now that he had lost House too.

Cuddy looked smart in her red pea coat and a charcoal pencil skirt. Wilson stood aside to let her step in, and then slowly shut the door without turning away from it. He remained silent. If he didn't say anything then she wouldn't try to start a conversation and he could pretend that nothing was wrong.

"How long has it been since you showered?"

Wilson looked up and turned halfway towards her, but he didn't make eye contact. He shrugged. "I'm not going anywhere." He heard Cuddy sigh, and then her hand appeared on his shoulder. He glanced at her, lost, but moved out from under her hand a second later. "Have a seat. Do you want some coffee?" He couldn't manage to not be polite; he was James Wilson, after all. "Sorry about the mess."

"Going through old photo albums?" Cuddy asked. She reached down to pluck a snapshot of Hector and Bonnie off the coffee table. "That's…maudlin, actually. What are you looking for?"

"Um." Wilson pulled at the back of his neck and fixed his eyes elsewhere.

"Never mind." Cuddy let the picture flutter back down onto the table. She still didn't sit down. "James…" He looked over to find her with one hand lifted, perhaps in hopes of catching words like snowflakes. "Be back at work on Monday."

It didn't register at all. "You're not just gonna mail me my things?"

She either didn't hear him, or chose to ignore him. "House will have to go through a mandatory three-month drug counseling program. It's outpatient, at least, so he should be able to finish it easily enough. And they won't try to make him give up the Vicodin, just control his emotional crutch for them. He's on medical leave until then. I managed to convince them not to suspend his pay."

Wilson frowned at a space just over Cuddy's right shoulder. "Wait. What?"

"You weren't fired." Cuddy lowered her hand and stepped away from the couch to catch his eye, but then she looked down at his hands, which he had stuffed in his pockets. "House testified to the committee. He told them it was all his fault – that he took too much Vicodin and got stoned, and that you just showed up. He told them he started the fight and you hit him by accident."

Wilson shook his head, and kept shaking it as he spoke. "No. Why would he – I – "

"I asked him why. He said that you thought you only had two things going for yourself, and he didn't want to take the other one."

Wilson blinked. "He can't do that."

Again, Cuddy ignored him, but she took a step closer and glared up at him. Wilson actually backed up at that expression. "If you ever give him cause to regret it, Wilson… So help me, there won't be a disciplinary hearing. Do you understand?"

Wilson nodded and tried to reply, but his tongue was too thick in his throat for speech so he simply nodded again.

"I have to get home. I'm paying the sitter overtime already." She paused on her way to the door to look back, and Wilson met her gaze. "You're both idiots, but I expected better from you, Wilson. Don't make me have this conversation again."

"I won't." Wilson watched her go and then the apartment rang out in silence all about him.

* * *

A street lamp managed to burn out above Wilson's car, he sat there for so long. House's apartment was dim but that didn't mean anything. He could be in bed, or in the bath, or just sitting on his couch in the dark. He might even be sitting at the piano. Only the little lamp on his desk by the door cast light over the space by the front window; House usually left it on so that he didn't accidentally trip over anything in the dark. It didn't mean that he was home.

Wilson drew a deep breath before removing his keys from the ignition. He had to do this.

The trip across the sidewalk and up the front steps didn't take long enough. Wilson was opening the front door and heading for House's apartment before he had a chance to gather anything – words, his thoughts, resolve…the composure that he accidentally dropped all over the concrete on his way to the steps…

He hesitated at the door. The worst thing would be if House didn't answer, not even to tell him to fuck off. He didn't know what he'd do if that happened; he couldn't think that far ahead. House would answer in some form. He had to.

Five minutes later, Wilson ran out of innocuous excuses for why House might not have answered yet. His stomach had hollowed itself out so thoroughly that he likened it to one of those ten-gallon ice cream tubs at Baskin Robbins, and four soda jerks were scraping the last bits of him out with ice cream scoops to give to a sloppy three-year-old. How could he not say something? How could House just sit and listen to Wilson knock and call his name and plead with him to open up? Finally, Wilson stopped the racket he was making and peered at his reddened knuckles. This was worse than he had imagined – to not only be unneeded, but unwanted as well.

Wilson turned to leave, numb to his core, and came up short. House was standing just inside the foyer, his face red from the cold. He leaned against the wall instead of his cane and they stared at each other, unblinking. House looked tired. Tired and sad, and maybe a little afraid, though not of Wilson; it was an ambiguous fear that seemed to compliment his features better than any other expression, though Wilson had not thought such a thing possible until he saw it with his own eyes. He wondered what House was afraid of when he looked like that. Maybe of being vulnerable. Or of being let down again.

After a moment, House looked at the floor and pushed off the wall. He glanced at Wilson as he moved past him to unlock his door, but he didn't say anything. Wilson only followed him inside when House left the door open and disappeared into the living room. It was probably as much invitation as Wilson was likely to get.

"I put all your stuff in there." House pointed to a box near the door. "Figured you'd come for it eventually."

Wilson looked down to find a messy pile of his clothes and a few personal items that had migrated into 221B over the years. The green tie sat on top. His eyes rose to stare at the back of House's head. "That's not why I'm here."

"Then why?"

Wilson watched House fiddle with piles of random nothing on his desk, his weight canted to the left and his cane thumping rhythmically against the floor. "I start work again on Monday."

"I know."

Wilson swallowed as he realized that he wasn't going to get anything back from House; this conversation was entirely up to him. "You lied to them."

House nodded while drawing a deep breath – fortifying himself. "Yeah."

When House simply kept messing up his desk, Wilson glanced aside and then asked, "Why?"

House's shoulders moved in a non-specific manner and he occupied himself by unzipping his backpack and pulling out a plastic grocery bag. When Wilson didn't say anything more – didn't even move – House sighed and leaned his hands against the desk. "I'm used to you. Didn't wanna share a balcony with somebody else."

Wilson's eyes found the floor; he listened to House pick up his grocery bag and stump off to the kitchen. After a minute passed and House didn't come back, Wilson shuffled after him and leaned in the doorway with his hands shoved deep in his pockets. "I'm sorry I hit you."

"Hmph." House almost smiled at that. Almost, but not quite. "It was a decade in the making, wasn't it."

Wilson dared to grin back, but he felt unaccountably shy when he did so. "Brenda said she'd stand in line for a chance…" He trailed off and found a floor tile to scrutinize. "It's not funny."

"Of course it is," House countered.

Wilson looked up to find him laying out four pieces of bread on the counter, his back pointedly facing Wilson. No; it was not funny. "Are we okay?"

House paused in the act of twisting the peanut butter jar open to lean both hands on the counter, one of them clenched about a spreading knife. He ducked his head and shook it, a mirthless smile stretched thin across his face. "And people think I have gall."

"Are we?' Wilson couldn't hide the desperation in his voice and it enticed House to relent.

"We were never okay, Wilson. Quit kidding yourself." He went back to making sandwiches and Wilson watched him handle the knife. House spread peanut butter the same way he performed surgery, his index finger extended to guide the blade, the rest of his hand steady and deliberately placed to exert just the right amount of force.

Wilson averted his gaze and then admitted, "I wanted it to be true. I really did." House stopped and turned around to peer at Wilson, his eyes haunted, but he didn't speak. The scene should have been ridiculous: Wilson perched against the doorway and House dripping glops of peanut butter on the countertop. Wilson wished he could find it ridiculous. "I wanted her to be a proxy for you. I wanted that to be the problem. But she wasn't." Wilson ran his left hand through his hair and then made a point of not grasping the back of his neck. "She was…she was Amber. And you…" He shook his head and forced himself to meet House's eyes. "You're not a substitute for anybody, House."

"But I'm still not good enough for you."

Wilson felt the pressure build in his sinuses but he fought it back and shook his head. "I want you to be. I don't know why you're not. And that's nothing against you. It's just – "

" – who you are. And people don't change." House frowned and looked down.

Wilson looked up. "And you're okay with that? With knowing I'll never be satisfied with you, that I won't ever just let you be or accept you or – "

"You don't have to," House interrupted. "I don't care; it's just part of you. I can live with it."

"But…"

"You wouldn't be Wilson if you changed."

Wilson gulped in a few breaths to counteract what those soft, simple words did to him. "That's it? No arguments or yelling, or – or…You're just absolving me?"

House shrugged and lowered his head again. "I never really blamed you for anything."

"If you didn't blame me, then why did you try to kill yourself with my pills?" Wilson took a step forward, his anger confused and dampened by his shame. "Why not use your own?"

"Because I knew what it would do to you," House replied. His eyes found Wilson's though he kept his head bowed. "Did you mean it when you said you forgave me?"

Wilson stuttered over the breath he took and then clamped his mouth shut. He refused to answer because he didn't want to lie. But he couldn't bear the thought of House's expression at hearing the truth.

"I didn't think so. It's okay," House assured him. "I never really thought you would."

"It's not like that." Wilson pushed off the wall and took a step closer. "I can't forgive you for Amber – I don't blame you for what happened. She took the amantadine; she knew the risks of self medicating."

House shook his head and looked down at the mess he had made with the peanut butter. Chunky peanut butter, Wilson noticed. Not that it mattered, but House usually ate the creamy kind. The store must have been out. House swallowed a few times, his chin tucked down against his chest as he hunched over the countertop. It took several seconds for Wilson to realize that House was fighting not to break down.

"House?" He crossed the room and bent over to try and catch House's eye, but House straightened and turned away, leaving his partially made sandwiches scattered in a mess of peanut butter. Wilson tried to think of something to say, to give him whatever he needed to hear. "I forgive you for thinking you were to blame, okay? And for everything you did…after… I don't want you dead, House. When I found you this time, and I thought you were – "

"Quit pretending to care!" House bellowed, his back still turned.

"Why do you think I'm pretending? How many times do I have to explain it to you, House? You get me all twisted up and wrung out, and you think – "

"Just admit that you hate me." House spun around and Wilson took a step back. "You don't have to rationalize it away, Wilson – it's a feeling. Stop trying to explain everything."

Wilson pursed his lips and nodded, casting about for something to settle his eyes on. "Fine. I hated you." He looked up. "Past tense." He stopped long enough to reconsider and then decided to just go on with it. "I was using you at first – I thought you owed me something, and if you were willing to…to give me anything at all, then I should just take it. But that's not…soon…it wasn't about replacing Amber anymore. It was about you. I wanted you. And you just kept on with these – these games, and you – I don't even know what the hell you were doing half the time. One minute you were telling me not to degrade myself and the next you're using me as some sort of – of self-flagellation to ease your conscience. And it just…you…I got pissed off." Wilson surrendered and rested his weight on the countertop, too exhausted to try to figure anything out anymore. "How long have you been in love with me?"

House's head whipped around. "What?"

He couldn't look at House as he spoke. "You said before that you hadn't changed. That your feelings for me haven't changed. So how long has it been?" No answer was forthcoming, so Wilson drew a spleen in the peanut butter near his hand and said, "You could have just told me."

"Why would I have done something idiotic like that?" House demanded, and Wilson glanced up at the shades of anger in his tone. "If I'd initiated it, would you have gone along? No. You had wives and girlfriends and affairs and Amber, and anyone else you could want. Would you ever have chosen me over one of them?" He scoffed and cocked his hip to take the weight off his bad leg.

"You never asked me to."

"Oh, bullshit. Maybe not in words – "

"House, you can't know what I would have said."

House stopped talking and examined the backs of his hands. "Yes, I can. You've always taken anyone you could get over me."

"You think so?" Wilson retorted, his hands on his hips and his ire flaring against his will. "I ruined two marriages for you, House. I spent every spare minute I had here – "

"You were only here because you were tired of them. It wasn't a preference – "

"It was because you had an infarction and you wouldn't suffer anybody else to be near you!"

House scratched at his stubble and peered around the kitchen, maybe in search of his cane, which he had left by the front door. "So you've been my pity friend all this time?"

Wilson exhaled and shut his eyes in exasperation. "You know damn well that's not what I meant."

"Fine. I'm sorry."

"I'm not asking you to apologize. I wanted to be here."

House continued scratching absent-mindedly and nodded, but he said, "Yeah. I wish I believed you."

Wilson had no comeback to that, though he scoured his mind for some way to object or rebut. Eventually, he simply asked, "Why me? You had Stacy, you could've had Cuddy if you weren't so intent on annoying her. So why me?"

"Do you ever pay attention when I talk?"

Wilson stopped himself from shaking his head because he didn't want House to misinterpret his bewilderment for a denial. After casting his mind back through their more recent conversations, he nodded. "Because I'm the only one around. But that's not true."

"You're the only one who ever wants to be around me. Everybody else either works for me or has to deal with me at the hospital." House's eyes flickered around the counter area until he noticed the half-finished sandwiches again.

"Okay, look," Wilson said. "I can't keep doing this…dealing with your – whatever." He wanted to say self-destructive streak, or maybe suicide attempts, but it didn't make its way past his lips. "Tell me you're not gonna do it again."

"Do what?" House reached for the jar of peanut butter and went back to spreading way too much of it over a cheap slice of white bread.

Perhaps unnecessarily, Wilson pointed out, "You tried to kill yourself."

"Yeah. I fucked that up. I fuck everything up." House picked up the jar and scooped out more peanut butter. "Shouldn't have left you the stupid note."

Wilson's eyes prickled. It was bad enough that House flirted with suicide, but to do it without leaving Wilson anything… "You think I want you to just slip off somewhere and die alone?"

House laughed, a happy little belly laugh, but it was an ugly sound. "There you go again!" He made a gesture with the spreading knife that seemed half in good sport and half like twisting it in deeper. Then he grinned as if they were sharing a normal pre-Amber evening and Wilson had, for once, gotten in a good, high quality dig. "With the pretending to care, and the little pound puppy eyes." He made that sarcastic awe-shucks-how-cute face, then turned back to the sandwiches. But his motions degenerated into something less well-trained-surgeon and more Jack the Ripper. Which was not to say that he was sloppy; Jack the Ripper had been brutal, yes, but precise. "All about me," he muttered as he plopped a slice of bread down on a pile of peanut butter to complete one sandwich.

"House, I don't…" Wilson forgot what he intended to say when House held the sandwich out to him. "No…thanks. I don't really want one."

House's nostrils flared and he spun around, sans cane, to limp over to the other bank of cabinets. Wilson stole glances at the rest of the room, confused, as House took down a plate, dropped the sandwich onto it, and then thrust it into Wilson's hands. "Forgot you like to be all prim and proper."

Wilson looked down at the unappetizing contents of the plate, then hurried to get out of the way as House pushed past him, leaning on furniture as he made his way to the piano with the other sandwich. When House set the sandwich down on the pristine lid of the baby grand, Wilson felt his stomach flop over. This was not right…something was seriously not right. House had conniptions when people so much as glared cross-eyed at his piano. Not that many people ever came here to begin with, but still.

Wilson set the plate down on the counter next to the open jar of peanut butter and followed House into the other room. He had no idea what to say. House merely sat on the bench and plunked out an irregular tune without looking at him. It reminded Wilson of old detective films and Alfred Hitchcock. He wouldn't be surprised if House were playing a movie score from memory; he had that sort of recall.

Wilson took a deep breath. "Do you want to die?"

House stopped poking keys and looked up. He genuinely seemed to have no idea what Wilson meant by asking that, and then his eyes shifted to Wilson's empty hands. "Where's your sandwich?"

"Enough with the sandwich," Wilson snapped. "We need to have a serious conversation here."

A dark expression overtook House's features and he leaned his palms on the piano keys to shove himself to his feet. The dissonant racket made Wilson cringe. "Too plain?" House demanded as he slipped past Wilson. "I'll put jelly on it."

"What are you talking about?" Wilson hurried along in House's wake, disturbed. "I told you I don't want the stupid sandwich."

"It's not good enough," House replied. He flung open the refrigerator door and snatched a jar of grape jelly. "So I'll make it better."

Wilson's brows drew deep furrows across his forehead. "Stop – just stop!" He caught at House's arm and tried to steal the jelly from him. "This has nothing to do with a sandwich – let go!"

House refused to unclench his fingers and Wilson wrestled with him over it. He managed to wrench the jelly from House's hand and set it on the counter, and when House reached to take it back, Wilson grabbed his arms to stop him. They grappled for a second, and then Wilson nearly lost his balance. He ended up smashing House up against the kitchen island. House curled in on himself and yelled, "Lupus! Get the hell off me!"

Wilson jumped back, his heart beating wildly and his eyes saucered. He gave a vigorous shake of his head. "That's not what I was doing."

House shoved off the island and took a faltering step to the counter. Wilson's trepidation grew as he watched House grab the jar and the discarded plate, and proceed to add jelly to the sandwich, his focus surreal. Wilson stepped close enough to brush the pads of his fingers over House's shoulder. As soon as House felt it, he flinched and muttered the safe word again.

For lack of anything better to do, Wilson drew back and waited until House finished remaking the sandwich, then accepted the plate from him. "Talk to me."

"Why should I bother?" House asked. His neutral tone belied the confrontational nature of the question. "Whether I say anything or not, you'll just come to the same conclusions you always come to. Why waste my breath?"

House limped around the island this time to get out of the kitchen, and Wilson stared down at the sandwich. He was afraid to decline it again so he took it with him to the living room. When House sat down and took up plunking away again with no real melody in evidence, Wilson's worry blossomed into something he couldn't easily identify. "Are you okay?"

"I'm sure you'll answer that for me," House replied in a monotone.

"I want you to answer it," Wilson countered.

"You're not eating. I have different jelly."

Wilson stared at the back of House's head and House kept on hitting random series of piano keys until he shaped something that dimly resembled a song. "I'm gonna call Cuddy. She can come over here – "

"Don't be an idiot," House interrupted. "Where would she find a sitter for that brat-thing of hers this late at night?" His voice lacked some intangible quality, and it stole Wilson's ability to think for a moment. The words were all right – patented House – but the way he said them…they sounded flat, like lines recited by an inept actor.

A knock on the door interrupted the start of Wilson's alarm and he turned as the knob rattled. Neither of them had locked it when they'd come in. The door swung open to reveal a disheveled Chase wearing his winter coat over flannel pants and a thermal shirt. "Um…hey."

Wilson shifted on his feet and looked at the sandwich again for some reason. When House kept on playing, Wilson asked, "What are you doing here?"

Chase stepped inside, clearly uncomfortable, and shut the door. "He called me when he saw your car parked out front. Asked me to come over." He eyed the plate that Wilson gripped too tightly. "Midnight snack?"

"I…don't know," Wilson admitted.

"He won't eat it," House chimed in.

"Okay." Chase looked at both of them as if they were crazy, then spied the other sandwich sitting on the lacquered piano lid. His brows climbed upward and he glanced at Wilson; he must have known how obsessive House was about the piano.

Wilson shrugged to convey his lack of explanation and shot a worried look in House's direction.

Chase nodded and addressed Wilson. "Maybe you could get a paper towel or something?"

"Yeah. Be right back." Wilson hurried toward the kitchen, almost relieved to have an excuse to leave the room. He couldn't blame House for calling someone – for not wanting to be alone with Wilson – but god, it stung. He was the abuser. Or something. He didn't even know anymore.

"Take your time," Chase added.

Wilson put forth some effort to appear as if he were not fleeing, but he couldn't help it. He stood in the kitchen and shivered, trying to eavesdrop and not listen at the same time. He could still see the entire living room – the bookshelves and the guitars, the couch, Chase, House… Chase kept whispering near House's ear but it didn't appear as if House answered at all. The plate grew heavy in Wilson's hand so he set it down, but he picked up the sandwich and took a bite. Too much peanut butter. But he knew that already.

After a few minutes, Chase straightened and smiled in Wilson's direction. Wilson grabbed a paper towel and reluctantly approached the piano. When House glanced over his shoulder and noticed Wilson eating the sandwich, he inexplicably smiled this big goofy grin, the sort of look he'd given Wilson over thousand-dollar monster truck tickets four years ago. It was creepy.

Wilson set the paper towel down on the piano lid and transferred House's sandwich to it. "I'll leave. You don't have to kick me out or anything."

"He said it's fine," Chase said with a shrug. "I'm gonna go home and catch a few more hours' sleep. Have fun."

Wilson turned to watch Chase beat a quick exit, then looked down at House. "Um…"

"It's late," House said.

"Yeah." Wilson swiveled to look around the rest of the room, though he had no idea what he was looking for. "I, uh…I should go home."

"Bye."

Wilson took a few steps toward the door, then glanced back at House. "Are you okay?"

"I'm just ducky," House replied with too much enthusiasm. Then he sort of crinkled on the bench. "You don't have to go."

Wilson couldn't tell what sort of an invitation that was. Stay and watch TV? Sleep on the couch? Sleep…somewhere else? "I think I should go home," he said again.

"It's not a big deal," House said. There was still something off in his tone, but he sounded less strange than he had before Chase's visit.

"Yes, it is," Wilson argued.

House nodded and an incongruous smile made its way onto his face. "I guess we're even now."

That response made no sense and Wilson gave a vigorous shake of his head. "No. No, we're not," he averred, though he really wasn't sure which of them owed the other what. "Why are you smiling?"

Instead of answering, House shut the lid over the piano keys and pushed himself to his feet. He stepped into Wilson's personal space and Wilson flinched when he extended his hand. House drew back a bit but reached out again.

Wilson closed his eyes as House's palm cupped the side of his face. "House?"

"It's okay."

Wilson felt a gentle tug against the back of his neck, and then soft lips and stubble grazed his jaw. "What are you doing?"

"Something you understand."

Wilson swallowed and turned toward House's lips when they neared his own. The kiss was tentative, nervous, but Wilson was too afraid to be the aggressor to change that. He let House's tongue caress his lips and then opened his mouth just enough for House to flick the tip of his tongue inside.

They broke apart as House moved to suckle Wilson's neck, and Wilson took the opportunity to repeat what House had told him almost a month ago on the couch. "This isn't gonna fix anything."

House nodded against Wilson's neck and mumbled, "I know." He pressed his fingers lightly in at Wilson's waist and moved to nibble along the shell of his ear. "And I don't care."

"You should." Wilson grabbed at the back of House's head with both hands and dragged their mouths back together. He couldn't help himself, and apparently, neither could House. Their tongues dueled, but not violently. The kiss bespoke a needy, desperate sort of thirst that they could only quench with each other. If Wilson were prone to fatalism, he would have described it so; instead, he pretended that they weren't both perfectly aware of the fact that they were doomed to keep hurting each other, no matter how hard they tried not to. But they couldn't exist apart. They needed the hurt.

Wilson crushed their lips together to drown out his thoughts and House responded as if he were doing the same. A soft sound escaped House's mouth and Wilson opened his eyes to find that House's were clenched shut. This made Wilson squeeze his lids together too, though he wasn't sure why. His hands slid down to House's shoulders and then around to his spine. He traced the vertebrae lower and House's back curved to press his stomach up against Wilson. Wilson tried to respond to the gentle thrust of House's pelvis but a strong part of him remained intent on holding back.

To keep House from noticing, Wilson turned them around and nudged House in the direction of the bedroom. House stepped awkwardly back, relying on Wilson not to let him trip over anything. Hands shifted to cup Wilson's buttocks and yank him sharply in. Wilson couldn't help responding to the force of House's desire and the blood finally started to journey southward. They stumbled into the wall and Wilson drew House upright to continue down the hallway. Their kisses turned harsh, teeth and House's stubble mixing to produce a burn against Wilson's lips. He replied in kind, spurred on by the needy sounds vibrating in the back of House's throat. They bit at each other until Wilson tasted blood on his tongue. He didn't know which of them belonged to it.

The backs of House's legs hit the bed and he sat down with a whump. Wilson followed him with his mouth and House helped him climb up onto the bed. A few gentle prods got House to lay back and Wilson settled down beside him, propped up on an elbow. They occupied each other with their mouths for a while, and then House grasped Wilson's hips and tried to pull him on top of himself. Wilson almost went along, but he could too vividly recall the sight of himself holding House down and hitting him until he drew blood. Instead of straddling House, Wilson rose up far enough to redistribute his weight, and then he seized House's arms and flung them both over.

House landed on top of Wilson with a startled gasp and they both stopped moving long enough to stare at each other. Wilson waited for House to voice some sort of protest, to make the same points that he had made on the couch when he refused to let Wilson bottom, but the objections never came. House shifted until he could rest comfortably on top of Wilson, and then he dove in to attack Wilson's mouth with more anger than passion.

Wilson's hands clenched on House's biceps and he grunted into House's mouth, not completely displeased with the harsh kisses, but unable to enjoy them. He felt crushed by both House's weight and what they were doing. This wasn't right. Even as Wilson reached down to hold House's lower body against himself and grind upward, he knew that it wasn't right. But he didn't try to stop. House raked his blunt fingernails over Wilson's chest and paused to tweak a nipple. Wilson would have gasped in pain but his mouth was full of House's lips and tongue. Wilson choked instead and House pinched harder. A strangled moan made its way out between nips of teeth and Wilson yanked House's shirt up far enough to claw at House's spine, at his ribs. He arched into House's hands and tried to breathe in spite of being suffocated.

It took Wilson by surprise when House pulled at his arms and trapped them against the bed. Then before he could react, House kneed his way in between Wilson's legs and scooted forward until his thighs were shoved up under Wilson's. Wilson tried to pull out of the kiss but his head was already mashed back into the bed. He arched his neck instead and managed to turn his head far enough that House had to break off. "What are you doing?"

In a sing-song voice, House replied, "Already told you."

Wilson started to say something else but House wrenched Wilson's arms away from his sides and then settled squarely on top of him, compressing Wilson's lungs. The air whooshed out of him and he barely struggled as House propelled his arms into the mattress over his head, crossed at the wrists so that he could hold them there with one hand. Wilson grunted and then flinched as House reached for Wilson's belt. He managed to croak out an uneasy, "House?"

"Not fun, is it." House got the belt unbuckled and slid it free of Wilson's belt loops.

Wilson's breathing went into overdrive. "What are you doing?"

House paused long enough to chuckle. "How many times do you want me to say it?"

"I don't understand this!" Wilson exhorted. He tried to free his hands but between House's strength and the weight he bore down with, Wilson couldn't slip from his grasp.

"Oh, relax. I'm not hurting you."

Wilson could remember saying something similar to House when their positions had been reversed. When House stretched over him to try to bind his wrists with the belt, Wilson shied and then heaved his torso up in an effort to roll him off. "Okay, I get – I get it!" It might have worked if House had been straddling him, but as his weight was safely planted on the mattress between Wilson's legs, Wilson could only jostle him a bit. "House, come on. You've made your point."

"Have I?" House proceeded to get Wilson's hands bound despite Wilson's thrashing against him.

Wilson tipped over into full-blown panic. He didn't want to hurt House, but he couldn't just let him… "Stop," he tried one last time, hating how weak and tinny his own voice sounded. "House, stop. We can talk about this."

"Already tried talking," House replied. His manner was subdued but not emotionless; he was doing this with a purpose, but it didn't seem to please him at all. "Didn't work so I'm moving onto the paybacks."

Wilson bit back the urge to let a fearful whimper escape and worked instead to force his left knee between their abdomens in the hopes of shoving House off. House responded by sinking farther down so there was no space for Wilson to work with. Wilson bucked and tried to yank his hands away but House was stronger in this position. He threaded the end of the belt around the nearest bed post and pulled a knot through it with little difficulty. With Wilson's hands restrained, House was free to trap Wilson's calves under his arms, immobilizing them as well.

Wilson kept straining against him, shuddering uncontrollably as his mind provided him with far too many likely scenarios for him to have any hope of talking himself down. He could hear himself grunt from the exertion every few times his muscles clenched and pulled against either House or the belt. Not knowing what House planned to do to him was the worst part. Finally, the only thing left for Wilson to try was to apologize. He repeated it over and over in the hopes that it would get House to stop.

"Funny thing about sorry," House offered. "It's just a word. You can say it without actually meaning it."

Wilson forced himself to silence and realized that his eyes were closed. He cracked them open to find House just sitting there, holding his legs so he couldn't kick and accidentally injure one of them.

"You're crying." House indicated Wilson's face with a nod.

Wilson managed to reply, "You're scaring the crap out of me." He hated how his voice trembled, like a butterfly wing caught in a breeze.

House shrugged and glanced away as if that went without saying. Neither of them moved for a few seconds. "I liked Amber, you know." His eyes found Wilson's again. "I mean, she was sort of terrifying. But I didn't have a problem with her."

Wilson weighed the merits of starting an argument in this position, but in the end, he acknowledged that he had never really been good about censoring himself around House. "You practically sued for joint custody of me."

"You couldn't even stand up to her for the sake of one night a week with me," House countered. "You just didn't want to hang out anymore."

Wilson gulped, his breathing shallow on account of the way House had bent Wilson's knees into his stomach. It left him slightly lightheaded and cold. "Not true. Why can't we just let this go, House?"

"Ah, yes. Repression," House said. He smiled and gazed up into a corner, and Wilson wondered if he'd cracked at some point in the past three weeks. "Great substitute for the truth." Wilson started to reason with him, but House abruptly dropped Wilson's legs and crawled out from between them. In silence, he loosened the belt and Wilson worked his hands free.

Wilson slid to the edge of the bed, still shaking, and glanced over his shoulder. House was just sitting there on the other side, one hand absently worrying his thigh. "That's it?" Wilson asked. "That's your payback? You just…tied me up for fun and made some random comments about my dead girlfriend, and we're done?"

House twisted until his face appeared in profile to Wilson. "I thought about maybe breaking your kneecap, but I didn't want to leave marks. Gives me plausible deniability." He paused to put his back to Wilson again. "Get out of my apartment."

Wilson swiveled around to face the wall again, then stood up. But he didn't leave. "I think…I think we should maybe sit down and talk. Maybe…maybe with a professional. Maybe – "

He hadn't even heard House moving. Hands seized Wilson's arms and wrenched him off balance, and then he stumbled out into the hall. The bedroom door slammed as Wilson caught himself against the bathroom doorway. He straightened and stared at the door, listening to House's footsteps carry him heavily toward the bed, then back toward the door again. Wilson braced himself for a fight but all House did was fling the door open, throw Wilson's belt and shoes at him, then shut it again. Something on House's side fell from the wall and Wilson heard him curse at it before the bed creaked under his weight. Then nothing.

Wilson shifted his feet, nervous and worried and completely confused. "I'm not leaving," he called.

House's voice came back muffled from the closed door, but clearly angry. "No kidding. You never actually leave – you always come back. You're like the fucking plague."

"Look." Wilson spread his hands to plead with the closed door. "I came here to apologize, not start another fight. I just want us to be friends again."

"Who the hell would want to be your friend?" House demanded. Wilson heard him shift on the bed. "You're perfectly charming on the surface, but once people get to know you… It's no wonder no woman wants to stay married to you. You lie, you cheat…you're a great actor. You even sell me half the time."

Denying it occurred to Wilson, but it would take too much effort. And he wasn't sure that House was wrong. "You like that about me," Wilson replied. "It's not boring."

Silence. Then a soft, "Yeah," drifted out from the crack beneath the door.

"Nobody else would say that," Wilson pointed out. "Nobody else sticks with me after they see that."

"Nope."

Wilson turned to look at the empty hallway behind him. He didn't think that either one of them could tolerate any more candid conversation. The digital clock on House's DVD player far away in the living room glowed out three am. Actually, that was Wilson's DVD player; House had never given it back and Wilson now had Amber's. "I'm…gonna go sleep on the couch."

"Okay."

Wilson picked up his shoes and belt so that House wouldn't trip on them when he finally came out, then padded into the living room. The closet revealed a notable lack of his couch pillow and blanket, and he spared a moment to shut his eyes at the symbolism behind that. On his way back to the couch, he picked the sandwich and paper towel up off of House's piano and scraped away some bits of peanut butter that had stuck to the lacquered finish. He was busy buffing it with his shirt sleeve when he heard uneven footsteps behind him. The reflection in the window revealed House standing across the room, watching him; he had put on his pajama pants but he still wore his t-shirt and light blue button-down. Wilson went back to cleaning the piano lid without a word, then stole away to the kitchen to dispose of the remnants of the uneaten sandwich. House was still there when he came back.

Wilson stopped in front of him with one hand in his pocket and the other latched to the back of his neck. He hesitated, then admitted in a halting voice, "You were right at your dad's funeral. I don't know how to lose people." He paused and looked anywhere but at House poised in the hallway. "I'm sorry. I know it hurts you, but I just…I have to fix you so you don't…don't leave me. I have to keep trying to fix you."

House exhaled as if he'd been holding that breath for a year. "I know, Wilson."

"Are we gonna be okay?" Wilson knew he was courting fire by asking, but he couldn't just hold it inside.

House shrugged and leaned more weight on the wall, his right leg crooked to relieve the pressure. "The couch sucks. You'll just wake up with a crick in your back. Come on." He hooked a thumb over his shoulder and pushed off the wall. "Come on," he repeated.

Wilson trailed him to the bedroom and then climbed under the covers that House folded back for him. He was surprised when House laid down facing him and drew him up against his chest. Wilson burrowed in and snuck his arm across House's waist, resting his hand at the small of House's back. "There's something wrong with us," Wilson said.

House's arm tightened over Wilson's shoulder blades. "I know. It doesn't matter."

Wilson nodded. "It never mattered."

"Never did." House shifted until his chin rested near Wilson's forehead. "Night, Wilson."

Wilson smiled. Yeah…they would be okay eventually, in as much as they ever had been. "Night, House."


End file.
